SIENNA'S POV
The crowd screamed my father's name like a curse.
I pushed through ten thousand angry bodies packed into Ashford Stadium, each one shouting about justice and corruption and things they didn't understand. My hand stayed on my gun. These people didn't know I was Judge Raymond Cross's daughter—the man they wanted dead.
"LOCK THEM UP! LOCK THEM UP!" The chant shook the stadium walls.
On stage, Celeste Moreau raised her fist. The spotlight turned her into something bigger than human—a goddess of revenge wrapped in righteous fury. And standing beside her, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes, was Maya.
My best friend. My sister in everything but blood.
She looked different up there. Harder. Like the military had carved away the girl who used to laugh at my terrible jokes and left behind someone I didn't recognize.
Our eyes met across the sea of people.
For one heartbeat, Maya's face cracked open. I saw fear there. Guilt. Something that looked like an apology.
Then her expression went blank, and she looked away.
Cold dread settled in my stomach. Something was wrong. Something was—
"You shouldn't be here, Detective."
I spun around, hand on my weapon.
Damien Kade stood three feet away, somehow appearing in the crowd like smoke. His gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. He wore all black, blending into the chaos, but I couldn't look away from him.
"I'm working a case," I said.
"You're walking into a trap." He moved closer, and suddenly I could smell his cologne—something expensive that shouldn't make my heart race but did. "Eight victims connected to a twenty-year-old trafficking ring. Your father was number eight. Do you really think it's a coincidence that Celeste Moreau is giving a speech about justice for abused children?"
"Get to the point."
"The point, Detective Cross, is that everyone on stage is about to die." His hand wrapped around my wrist, gentle but firm. "And you need to leave before you die with them."
I yanked my arm free. "You know who the killer is."
"I've always known." That cold smile touched his lips. "I've been protecting them for two years."
Before I could respond, Celeste's voice boomed through the speakers: "They say justice delayed is justice denied. But I say justice delayed is just revenge waiting for the perfect moment!"
The crowd roared approval.
"Twenty years ago, thirteen children were trafficked, abused, and thrown away like garbage. The men who hurt them paid off judges and cops and lawyers. Those monsters walked free while we—the victims—were told to heal, to forgive, to move on."
My phone buzzed. Unknown number: She's not talking about justice. She's confessing. Get Maya OFF that stage. Now.
"Who is this?" I typed back frantically.
Someone who loved those thirteen girls. Someone who failed them. Someone who's been trying to stop victim thirteen from killing them all.
My blood turned to ice. I looked at Damien. "Celeste is victim thirteen."
"Close." His eyes never left the stage. "Elena Russo was victim thirteen. Celeste Moreau is what Elena became after she faked her death and spent twenty years planning revenge."
"Then why haven't you stopped her?"
"Because part of me wants to watch them all burn." His voice dropped to something raw and painful. "My parents were investigating that trafficking ring. They were murdered three days before they could expose it. I was twelve years old when I found their bodies."
The confession hit me like a punch. This cold, controlled man—this arrogant billionaire who looked at the world like he owned it—was just a broken boy seeking revenge.
"Damien—"
"But I'm tired of revenge," he continued, finally meeting my eyes. "I'm tired of letting hate control my life. So I'm asking you, Detective Sienna Cross—daughter of the corrupt judge who helped destroy thirteen lives—will you help me stop this before more people die?"
On stage, Celeste raised something to her lips. A small vial of dark liquid.
"NO!" I screamed, but my voice was lost in the crowd's roar.
Maya saw it too. She lunged toward Celeste, trying to knock the vial away.
Then everything exploded into chaos.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
Maya's body jerked backward, blood blooming across her shoulder. She collapsed on stage while Celeste stood frozen, the vial still at her lips.
Time stopped.
My best friend—my sister—lay bleeding while ten thousand people screamed.
I ran. Pushed through bodies, knocked people aside, didn't care about anything except reaching Maya. Security was tackling someone in the crowd. A teenage boy with a gun and wild eyes.
But I only saw Maya's blood spreading across the stage.
Then Damien was there, moving like death itself through the panicking crowd. He reached Maya before I did, his hands already applying pressure to her wound with the precision of someone trained to kill—or save.
"She'll live," he said when I dropped beside them. "The bullet went through clean."
Maya's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and pain-filled. Her hand grabbed mine with desperate strength. "Si... I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I should have—"
"Save your strength," I begged. "You're going to be fine."
"Celeste," Maya gasped. "She's not the killer. She's the—"
Another gunshot.
I spun around to see Celeste stumbling backward, clutching her chest. The vial fell from her hands, liquid spilling across the stage like poison.
But there was no shooter. No gun. Just Celeste falling to her knees with blood spreading across her white dress.
"Impossible," Damien breathed. "That's impossible."
Security swarmed the stage. Paramedics rushed toward both victims. And I knelt there, holding Maya's hand, watching Celeste die, and understanding absolutely nothing.
My phone buzzed again.
You're asking the wrong questions, Detective. Celeste isn't victim thirteen killing everyone. She IS everyone. And the person who shot her? Look at your partner.
I looked up sharply, scanning the crowd that had turned into a stampede of panic.
There, at the edge of the stadium, I saw Marcus. My partner. My trusted friend. The man I'd been falling for.
He was holding a rifle with a scope.
And he was pointing it directly at Maya.
Our eyes met across the chaos. Marcus smiled—cold and cruel and nothing like the man I thought I knew.
Then he pulled the trigger.
"MAYA!" I threw myself over her body as the bullet whistled past my head and buried itself in the stage where her heart had been.
Damien grabbed us both, covering us with his body as more shots rang out. "We need to move! Now!"
But as security returned fire and people trampled each other trying to escape, I looked at Celeste's body lying twenty feet away.
She was smiling.
Even dying, even bleeding out on stage in front of thousands—she was smiling like everything was going exactly according to plan.
And written in her own blood on the stage floor, I saw new words: VICTIM SEVEN DIES TONIGHT.
Maya was victim seven.
My best friend, the person I loved most in the world, was next on the list.
And the person trying to kill her was my own partner—the man I'd trusted with my life.