Lady Catherine Westbrook's estate looked like something from a Gothic fairy tale—rolling hills dotted with ancient oaks, a manor house that had weathered centuries of English history, and gardens that probably employed half the village. It was the picture of aristocratic perfection.
It was also a fortress.
"Thermal imaging shows at least twenty guards," MacLeod reported from her position on the ridge overlooking the estate. "Professional placement, military-grade equipment, overlapping fields of fire. Someone's been expecting us."
Seraphina crouched beside Damien in the pre-dawn darkness, watching the manor through high-powered binoculars. She'd traded her wedding dress for tactical gear that felt surprisingly natural—black fabric that moved like water, enough pockets for weapons and communication devices, boots that could run or fight with equal efficiency.
"Where would they keep Michael?" she asked Isabel, who lay prone beside them with a sniper rifle that looked entirely too comfortable in her hands.
"The east wing has a series of rooms that were converted from servants' quarters," Isabel replied, her voice steady despite the pain medication that was probably the only thing keeping her conscious. "Reinforced doors, no windows, perfect for holding someone against their will."
"Guards?" Damien asked.
"At least six inside, rotating shifts. Catherine doesn't take chances with valuable assets."
"And Michael is definitely valuable," Seraphina murmured, her mind working through possibilities. "The only living witness to the original murders, hidden for seventeen years. He's not just leverage—he's insurance."
"Which is why they won't kill him unless they have no other choice," Damien agreed. "But they will use him to force our compliance. The question is whether we can reach him before they realize their negotiation position has changed."
As if summoned by his words, Seraphina's phone buzzed with an incoming call. The number was blocked, but she answered anyway, putting it on speaker so the others could hear.
"Mrs. Blackwood," came a cultured female voice that could have graced any BBC broadcast. "So good of you to answer."
"Lady Westbrook, I presume," Seraphina replied calmly, though her finger was already moving to the trace app Damien had installed on her phone. "I was wondering when you'd call."
"I imagine you were. You've been causing quite a stir with your little media campaign." There was amusement in Catherine's voice, but underneath it lay something harder. "The Marcus Kane Foundation for Truth and Justice. How delightfully... naive."
In the six hours since leaving Edinburgh, Damien's people had worked miracles. Press releases had gone out to every major news outlet, social media accounts had been created and populated with carefully crafted content, and a website had gone live with donation capabilities and a mission statement that made Seraphina sound like Joan of Arc reborn.
The response had been immediate and explosive. #JusticeForMarcusKane was trending worldwide, donations were pouring in from people who'd lost loved ones to suspicious circumstances, and investigative journalists were already digging into the charitable organizations mentioned in their preliminary list of "suspicious deaths."
"Naive?" Seraphina smiled, though her voice remained pleasant. "I prefer to think of it as optimistic. People deserve to know when their charitable donations are being used to fund international criminal enterprises."
"People deserve to live in ignorance of things that don't concern them," Catherine replied sharply. "Your father learned that lesson too late. I'd hate for you to follow his example."
"Is that a threat, Lady Westbrook?"
"It's a reality check, my dear. You have something I want, and I have something you want. Shall we discuss terms?"
"I'm listening."
"Michael Ashford for your silence. You shut down your little foundation, disappear back to whatever hole you've been hiding in for seventeen years, and I'll ensure the boy is returned to his sister unharmed."
"Counter-offer," Seraphina said, her voice dropping to something that would have made her father proud. "You release Michael immediately, turn yourself and your associates in to the authorities, and I'll make sure your death is quick when I find you."
Catherine's laugh was like breaking glass. "My dear child, you really have no idea what you're dealing with, do you? I've been building this network since before you were born. I have resources that would make governments weep with envy. Do you honestly think you can threaten me?"
"I think," Seraphina said, nodding to Damien, who was already signaling MacLeod, "that you're about to find out exactly what the Blackwood family does to people who threaten our own."
The line went dead, but the trace had worked. MacLeod's voice crackled through their comms: "Signal originated from the manor house, third floor, north wing. I have a lock on the transmission point."
"She's in the house," Damien confirmed, his expression grim. "Which means this was never about negotiation. It was about confirming our location."
As if summoned by his words, the estate's floodlights blazed to life, turning night into artificial day. Sirens wailed in the distance—not police or emergency services, but the kind of tactical alerts that meant trained killers were mobilizing for war.
"They're coming," MacLeod reported tersely. "Multiple vehicles, air support inbound, at least forty hostiles converging on our position."
"Time to go," Damien said, but Seraphina caught his arm.
"No. We're not running." Her voice was steady, certain. "Michael is in that house, and we're not leaving without him."
"Seraphina, there are too many of them. Even with our people—"
"Your people aren't here yet." She was already moving, checking her weapons with movements that felt instinctive despite her limited training. "But they don't need to be. We have something better."
"What's that?"
"We have the truth." Her smile was sharp as winter morning. "And we're about to broadcast it to the world."
She pulled out her phone, switching to the live streaming app that Damien's media team had prepared. Within seconds, she was broadcasting to every social media platform simultaneously, her face filling screens around the globe.
"Hello, world," she said calmly, as gunfire began to echo across the hills. "My name is Seraphina Blackwood, and I'm standing outside the estate where international criminals are holding an innocent man hostage. What you're about to see is what happens when people seek justice against those who think themselves untouchable."
The viewer count was climbing rapidly—thousands, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands as the algorithm pushed her stream to trending status. Comments flooded in from around the world, expressions of support, offers of help, demands that authorities intervene.
"MacLeod," Damien said into his comm, "how long until backup arrives?"
"Twenty minutes for ground teams, forty for air support," came the crisp reply. "But sir, we're about to have company. Three helicopters approaching from the south, military configuration."
"Not ours?"
"Definitely not ours."
The helicopters crested the hill like mechanical vultures, searchlights blazing as they swept the area for targets. But instead of opening fire immediately, they held position, their lights creating a perfect circle of illumination around Seraphina.
"Smart," she murmured, still broadcasting. "They can't kill me while the world is watching."
"They can try," Isabel said grimly, adjusting her rifle's scope. "Catherine doesn't care about public opinion if she thinks she can eliminate the threat."
As if to prove her point, one of the helicopters began to descend, its rotor wash whipping through the trees as armed figures rappelled to the ground. But they moved carefully, professionally, like people who knew they were being watched by potentially millions of viewers.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Seraphina said to her phone's camera, "what you're seeing is a private army deployed by Lady Catherine Westbrook, Lord Pemberton, and Sir Marcus Thornton to silence anyone who threatens to expose their criminal enterprise. These are the people who've been using children's charities to launder money for arms dealers and human traffickers."
The comment section exploded with outrage. News outlets were already picking up the stream, broadcasting it on television networks around the world. Government officials were being tagged, demanding explanations, calling for investigations.
"Sir," MacLeod's voice was urgent. "I'm reading heat signatures inside the manor. Someone's moving Michael to a different location within the building."
"Where?"
"Sub-basement level. Looks like they're preparing for a siege."
Damien's expression was grim. "They're going to wait us out. Keep him as leverage while their lawyers and political connections work to shut down the investigation."
"Not if I can help it." Seraphina was already moving, staying low as she began working her way down the hill toward the manor house. "Isabel, can you get us inside?"
"There's a servants' entrance on the west side," Isabel replied, following despite her obvious pain. "Hidden door, connects to a network of passages that run throughout the house. Victorian-era paranoia about servants being seen."
"Perfect for infiltration," Damien agreed, signaling MacLeod to provide cover fire if needed. "How do we reach it without being seen?"
"We don't." Seraphina's smile was sharp. "We go in the front door."
Before anyone could protest, she was walking openly down the hill, her phone still broadcasting, approaching the estate's front gate with the confidence of someone who owned the world. The searchlights followed her movement, but no one fired—they couldn't, not with millions of people watching.
"Good evening," she said pleasantly to the armed guards at the gate. "I'm here to collect Michael Ashford and place Lady Catherine Westbrook under citizen's arrest for kidnapping, murder, and international racketeering. I assume she's expecting me?"
The guards looked uncertain, fingers hovering near triggers but unable to act with the world watching. One of them spoke into a radio, requesting instructions from someone higher up the chain of command.
"While we're waiting," Seraphina continued, addressing her phone's camera, "let me tell you about the Ashford Foundation. Officially, it's raised over two hundred million pounds for orphaned children. Unofficially, less than five percent of that money ever reached actual orphans. The rest went to fund weapons shipments, human trafficking operations, and political bribes across three continents."
The manor's front door opened, and Lady Catherine Westbrook herself emerged. She was a handsome woman in her sixties, silver-haired and elegant, wearing the kind of understated expensive clothing that screamed old money. She looked like someone's beloved grandmother.
She also looked furious.
"Miss Kane," Catherine said, her cultured voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. "How kind of you to visit. Though I must say, your timing is rather inconvenient."
"Mrs. Blackwood," Seraphina corrected pleasantly. "And I find that justice is rarely convenient for criminals. Shall we go inside? I believe you have something that belongs to the Ashford family."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"Really?" Seraphina's smile was sharp. "Michael Ashford. Age twenty-eight. Officially dead for seventeen years, actually hidden by his sister while your organization used his 'death' to build a criminal empire. Ring any bells?"
Catherine's composure cracked for just a moment—a flicker of something that might have been fear or rage. "You're trespassing on private property, broadcasting without permission, making slanderous accusations against respected members of society. I could have you arrested."
"Please do." Seraphina gestured to the phones that were undoubtedly recording from multiple angles now, as news crews and independent journalists converged on the estate. "I'd love to explain to the police why you have a private army and a kidnapped man in your basement."
"I have no idea what—"
Her words were cut off by the sound of sirens—real ones this time, not just tactical alerts. Police cars, news vans, and what looked like government vehicles were streaming up the long drive toward the manor house.
"Ah," Seraphina said with satisfaction. "Right on time."
Detective Inspector Chen emerged from the lead police vehicle, flanked by officers and what appeared to be representatives from multiple agencies. Her expression was grim but determined as she approached the standoff.
"Lady Catherine Westbrook," Chen announced, her voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, "you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping, money laundering, and operating a criminal enterprise. You have the right to remain silent..."
"This is preposterous!" Catherine snapped, but Seraphina noticed that none of her guards were moving to interfere. Professional soldiers knew when a battle was lost.
"Is it?" Chen pulled out a tablet, scrolling through what appeared to be financial records. "Because we've just frozen approximately four hundred million pounds in accounts linked to your charitable organizations. Amazing what a few hours of international cooperation can accomplish when the entire world is watching."
As Catherine was placed in handcuffs, Seraphina felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see Damien, his pale eyes bright with something that looked like pride.
"Not bad for your first international incident," he murmured.
"First?" She raised an eyebrow. "You think there'll be more?"
"Darling, we just declared war on a network that spans continents. This is barely the opening move."
Before she could respond, Isabel appeared beside them, supporting a young man who looked like a male version of herself—blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and the kind of aristocratic bone structure that belonged in museum portraits.
"Seraphina Blackwood," Isabel said formally, "I'd like you to meet my brother Michael. Michael, this is the woman who just saved your life and probably changed the world."
Michael Ashford looked exhausted, traumatized, but alive. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady: "Thank you. For everything. I never thought... I never thought anyone would believe the truth."
"The truth has a way of surfacing," Seraphina replied gently. "Especially when people are brave enough to speak it."
As police and government officials swarmed the estate, as news crews broadcast the dramatic arrest to a global audience, as the Marcus Kane Foundation's donation counter climbed past the million-pound mark, Seraphina stood in the courtyard where it had all ended and felt something she'd never experienced before.
Peace.
Not the absence of conflict—there would be more battles, more enemies, more people who needed justice. But the peace that came from knowing she was exactly where she belonged, doing exactly what she was meant to do.
"So," Damien said, sliding his arm around her waist, "what do we do for our next honeymoon?"
Seraphina looked at the chaos around them—the arrests, the reporters, the beginning of what would undoubtedly be the largest charity fraud investigation in history—and smiled.
"I hear the Cayman Islands are lovely this time of year," she said thoughtfully. "And I believe there are several banking executives there who might be interested in discussing their charitable donation practices."
Damien's laugh was rich and dark and full of promise. "I do love an ambitious woman."
"Good," Seraphina replied, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like victory and justice and the beginning of something that would reshape the world. "Because I'm just getting started."
The devil's heir had found his queen, and together they were going to burn down every corrupt system that preyed on the innocent.
One criminal enterprise at a time.