Chaos erupted in the orchard. Martha's shotgun blast shattered the lead security guard's kneecap, sending the others scrambling. Finn whooped, swinging a crowbar at a floodlight, glass shattering like hail. Isabelle grabbed Avery's arm as protesters swarmed past.
Avery was already moving, wrench raised.
They ran through the chaos they'd created, past guards and protesters clashing, past reporters capturing the Abel empire's downfall. The front door hung splintered open. Inside, Eleanor stood amidst the ruins of Avery's childhood home, her boot crushing a family photo.
"Stop!"
Isabelle's voice cracked through the room. Eleanor smiled.
"Too late, darling. The paperwork's already—"
Avery's wrench smashed through the drywall beside her head. "Get out."
Finn's scream pierced the night. They found him in the backyard, crumpled beneath a fallen beam. Blood bloomed across his shirt.
"No, no, no—"
Avery pressed his hands to the wound as Martha dropped beside them. Finn grinned up at Isabelle, blood on his teeth. "Worth it." His last breath fogged the wrench still clutched in Avery's hand.
At dawn, Isabelle stood amidst the wreckage, Finn's blood dried on her blazer. The protesters had won—the demolition halted, her parents fleeing the cameras—but at what cost? Avery appeared beside her, eyes red-rimmed, his father's wrench dented from battle. He held out his hand. Isabelle took it.
Sirens pierced the air—police, news vans, ambulances, and Abel Development's legal team. Robert Abel surveyed the damage, his gaze landing on Isabelle, Finn's blood staining her blazer. Eleanor emerged behind him, phone raised, streaming live to every major news outlet. "Look what your daughter has done, Robert," she announced, voice dripping with false grief. "Look at the chaos she's caused. The boy's blood is on her hands." The cameras swung toward Isabelle—a perfect, devastating trap.
The ambulance doors slammed shut, swallowing Finn's body whole. The wail of its siren cut through the orchard, drowning out the sobs of protesters, the shouted questions of reporters. Isabelle stood frozen, Finn's blood stiffening on her sleeves, the weight of Avery's glare like a knife between her ribs.
He stepped forward, his father's wrench dangling from his grip, still smeared with Finn's blood.
"You happy now, Abel?"
His voice was raw, stripped down to something jagged and dangerous. The crowd hushed. Cameras zoomed in.
Isabelle's throat tightened. "Avery—"
"No." He jabbed the wrench toward her parents, who stood flanked by lawyers, their expressions carefully curated for the cameras—concerned, but distant. Untouchable. "This is on them. And you knew. You knew what they were capable of."
Robert Abel sighed, the picture of paternal disappointment. "Avery, this is a tragedy, but let's not—"
"Don't." Avery's voice cracked like a whip. "You don't get to talk. Not after those falsified safety reports. Not after ordering the demo early to 'avoid press.'" He turned back to Isabelle, his eyes burning. "And you. You played rebel, but when it mattered, you hesitated. Now Finn's dead."
Isabelle flinched. The words landed like blows, each one truer than the last. She had hesitated. She had believed, somewhere deep down, that her parents wouldn't cross this line.
She'd been wrong.
Eleanor stepped forward, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "This is grief talking. Let's all take a moment to—"you
"Finn's dead because of you!" Avery roared, and the crowd surged, protesters shouting, cameras flashing. He didn't wait for a response. Just turned on his heel and walked away, wrench in hand, leaving Isabelle standing there in the wreckage of her choices.
Finn's blood on her hands.
The world watching.
And her parents already spinning the narrative.
"Come, Isabelle," Robert murmured, extending a hand like she was a child who'd strayed too far. "Let's go home."
She looked at his outstretched palm. Then at Avery's retreating back.
And for the first time in her life, Isabelle Abel didn't move.