Bash's study on the second floor of the main Fisher Island villa felt like a high-end art gallery that just happened to have blazing-fast Wi-Fi. Its walls were lined with contemporary abstract paintings that cost more than the average person's home, while in the center of the room sat two black gaming chairs, heavily worn from constant use. The late afternoon sun hit the screens of two iPad Pros resting side-by-side on a long teakwood desk. In one corner, the faint aroma of iced black Starbucks coffee bought that morning still lingered in the air.
Mirabella and Theodore Casablanca—the fifteen-year-old twins—sat next to each other with nearly identical posture. Both wore oversized black hoodies, baggy sweatpants, and headphones slung around their necks. Mirabella wore thin, dark sunglasses despite being indoors, while Theodore chewed his gum with a monotonous, rhythmic pop. They looked like two completely average teenagers mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. But the screens of their iPads displayed something entirely different.
On the first screen was video footage hijacked from Guy Faulkner's cloud storage. On the second, a meticulous spreadsheet listing the names of active Miami 010 clients, complete with dates, transaction amounts, and handwritten margin notes. Theodore clicked his virtual mouse with a long index finger.
"Charlie has transferred money to a private investigator three times this week," he mumbled flatly, sounding as if he were discussing the weather. "All from a private account he's been hiding from Guy. What a fucking idiot."
Mirabella didn't turn her head. Her fingers flew rapidly across her iPad screen. "He uses 'Faulkner2023' as his password. So classic. Boomers are so damn predictable."
The two fell silent for a beat. The only sounds were the rapid clacking of keyboards and the ocean breeze filtering through the open window. Outside, the muffled laughter and chatter from the brunch below drifted up to them.
Theodore finally spoke again. "Are we sending this batch to Felicia?"
Mirabella gave a single nod. "All of it. Including the footage of Guy meeting a client at one of his properties. That one is... pretty heavy."
Theodore clicked the "Send to Cloud Gallery" button. The files were instantly encrypted and forwarded to a hidden drop that only they and Felicia knew about. Afterward, he closed the app and opened Instagram. His latest post was a heavily filtered selfie that made his eyes look massive. The caption read: "Another day another family drama 
#FisherIslandVibes".
Mirabella stared at her twin brother from behind her dark lenses. "You posted again?"
"Had to," Theodore answered without looking up. "Gotta maintain the illusion of being normal. If we're too quiet, they'll get suspicious."
Mirabella let out a soft sigh. She closed her iPad and stood up. Her slender frame looked even taller thanks to her perfect posture. "Bash is going to lose his shit if he finds out we're hacking into people's clouds."
"Bash is always losing his shit," Theodore retorted, continuing to scroll. "But he's also the one who taught us how to do this. So he can't even be fully mad."
They fell silent again. Outside, the sound of footsteps ascending the marble stairs approached. Mirabella immediately dropped back into her chair and pulled up TikTok. Theodore did the exact same thing. Within seconds, both flawlessly reverted to looking like a pair of bored teenagers killing a Sunday afternoon on their phones.
The door swung open without a knock.
Felicia Montgomery strode in with long, confident steps. Her imposing height made the massive teakwood door look small. She wore an oversized black shirt and ripped jeans, her straight black hair and blunt bangs slightly messy from the wind. In her hand, she held two thick purple envelopes.
"What are you two busy doing?" she asked, kicking the door shut behind her.
"Scrolling," Mirabella answered flatly, not lifting her face from the iPad.
"Hacking," Theodore added, his tone equally deadpan.
Felicia approached and tossed the two envelopes onto the desk between their iPads. "Good. Because I come bearing gifts."
Theodore raised an eyebrow. "What did you bring?"
Felicia slid one of the envelopes toward Mirabella. "Open it."
Mirabella opened the envelope with excruciating slowness. Inside sat two black-and-gold concert tickets bearing bold lettering: BTS – Arirang World Tour VVIP + Backstage Pass. Right beneath it, in smaller print: Access All Areas.
Theodore sat up perfectly straight. "Are you fucking insane?"
"You'd be fucking insane to refuse," Felicia shot back, leaning her hip against the edge of the desk. "These are VVIP tickets. You get backstage access. Photo ops. Autographs. You can even ask them to sing a special song if you want."
Mirabella stared at the ticket, her eyes widening slightly—the absolute only emotional reaction she had displayed all day. "Bash is going to be pissed."
"Very," Felicia said with a razor-thin smile. "But you two have lived with him long enough to know the rules. He always says you can ask for whatever you want as long as it doesn't put you in physical danger. This isn't dangerous. It's just a concert."
Theodore picked up his ticket and inspected it closely. "What do you want in return?"
Felicia looked back and forth between the twins. Her voice dropped, growing significantly more serious.
"I received everything you sent this morning. Including the footage of Guy and Charlie's transaction data. That's enough to stall their morality clause for now. But I need more. I need you to keep a permanent eye on their cloud accounts. I need you to log every single time Charlie or Vicky make a move. And I need you to send it straight to me, nowhere else."
Mirabella looked up from the ticket. "Why does it have to go to you?"
"Because I am the only one who can deploy it effectively," Felicia answered flatly. "I have connections outside of this family. Connections that won't make Bash erupt into a blinding rage. If you send this raw data directly to Julian or Fabian, they will act on it immediately. And if they act too fast, this family will implode a hell of a lot faster than it's supposed to."
Theodore chewed his gum at a slower pace. "So you want us to be... your personal informants?"
Felicia shrugged. "You've been informants since the second you hacked into Guy's cloud. I'm just asking you to be a little more organized about it. And in exchange..." She tapped the ticket in Theodore's hand. "You get to go to a BTS concert without having to beg Bash for months. You can tell him these tickets are from me. That I'm taking you. Bash will be annoyed, but he'll allow it. Because he knows I would never put the two of you in danger."
Mirabella stared at the ticket in her hand for a long time. Then she spoke, her voice chillingly flat, "We already uploaded the entire dump to your private cloud this morning. Including the audio recording from Charlie's cloud that was accessed barely two hours ago."
Felicia raised an eyebrow. "Two hours ago?"
Theodore nodded. "He just uploaded the roster of the private investigators he hired. Three of them. We already logged everything. Bank account numbers and email addresses included."
Felicia gave a small, lethal smile. "Excellent."
She grabbed a chair and sat directly in front of the twins. Her voice softened slightly, though it remained perfectly composed.
"Listen to me," she said. "You two are smart. Frighteningly smart. Bash raised you entirely differently from the other kids in this family. He gave you absolute freedom. But that freedom has limits. If you get caught hacking too deep without a solid justification, Bash will lose it. And if Bash gets angry, he takes away the iPads. He might even ship you both off to boarding school."
Theodore visibly grimaced in disgust. "Fuck no."
"So," Felicia continued, "you help me. I help you. We keep Bash perfectly calm. And we make absolutely certain that Charlie and Vicky don't succeed in stealing what doesn't belong to them."
Mirabella stared at Felicia from behind her dark lenses. "You promise you won't tell Bash about this?"
Felicia nodded. "I promise. As long as you keep feeding me actionable intel."
Theodore took his VVIP ticket and shoved it deep into the pocket of his hoodie. "Deal."
Mirabella did the exact same. Then she spoke, her tone suddenly shifting to sound almost like a normal kid asking for a favor. "Can we ask for a group photo with all the BTS members?"
Felicia chuckled. "You can ask for whatever you want as long as that backstage pass is valid. Just don't overdo it. Don't creep them out."
Theodore went back to chewing his gum. "We won't creep them out. We just want a picture."
Felicia stood up. She looked at the twins with a complex mix of genuine affection and a flicker of worry.
"If anything happens," she said softly, "you call me. Don't call Julian first. Don't call Fabian. You call me."
Mirabella nodded. Theodore did too.
Felicia turned and walked toward the door. Right before she stepped out, she glanced back over her shoulder.
"And don't forget," she added with a thin smile. "Bash is going to be incredibly pissed about this. But you two are already way too deep in the mud to turn back now. So... have fun at the concert."
The door clicked shut softly.
Inside the study, Mirabella and Theodore exchanged a long look. Without uttering a single word, Theodore unlocked his iPad again. Mirabella followed suit.
On the screen, a brand new file popped up—an audio recording of a conversation between Charlie and Vicky from that morning, freshly ripped from Charlie's private cloud.
Theodore clicked play.
Charlie's voice echoed, muffled but distinctly clear: "We have to make sure Julian can't defend Fabian anymore. That clause needs to be fully active before the end of the month."
Mirabella stared at the screen with an entirely deadpan expression.
"Are we sending this to Felicia right now?" she asked.
Theodore nodded. "Right fucking now."
His fingers flew across the glass screen in a blur.
Outside the study, the sounds of laughter and polite conversation from the brunch drifted up into the air. The world down there was still completely consumed by petty schemes and pathetic betrayals.
But up on the second floor, two fifteen-year-old twins were executing something infinitely more dangerous.
They were stockpiling weapons.
And those weapons were already being funneled directly into the right hands.
Dinner on the outdoor terrace of Bash’s villa felt like a funeral procession that hadn't quite officially started yet. Tall beeswax candles flickered violently in the ocean breeze blowing in from Biscayne Bay. The shifting light carved deep, sharp shadows across everyone's faces, making them look older, harsher, and profoundly exhausted. The long teakwood table was draped in a white linen cloth that was already beginning to wrinkle in the wind. The porcelain plates bearing the club's crest were still piled high with almost completely untouched filet mignon. The scent of melting wax mingled with the sharp tang of sea salt and the fading scent of expensive perfumes.
Julian sat at the head of the table, Fabian to his immediate left. Directly across from them, Charlie Faulkner was already aggressively pouring his third glass of whiskey. Florence sat as rigidly as a marble statue. Vicky sat beside her, a thin, venomous smile playing on her lips, looking fully prepared to drop the bomb they had been meticulously crafting. Daniel and Giorgina sat further down; Daniel’s face already showing the distinct resignation of a man who knew tonight was going to end in absolute carnage. Bash sat opposite him, observing the entire spectacle with an unreadable expression. Felicia, Renata, and Declan had also joined the table—three individuals who had absolutely no business being there, which only served to crank the tension up to a suffocating level.
Charlie hacked at his filet mignon with movements that were far too rough for a high-end dinner. He looked up at Fabian with a wicked, predatory grin.
"I hear the hospitality industry is in a bit of a slump lately, Fabian," he drawled, his tone light but dripping with pure cyanide. "Or have you completely pivoted to the logistics business? I hear... the logistics of importing highly talented young men at Miami 010 is quite lucrative?"
Several people at the table instantly froze. Vicky smiled triumphantly, her hand already reaching for her champagne flute to offer some "moral support." Florence shot Charlie a sharp look that practically screamed do not push this too far. But Charlie had already gone way past the point of no return.
Fabian didn't answer immediately. He picked up his white linen napkin and wiped his mouth with excruciatingly slow, deliberate movements. He didn't even look at Charlie. He just offered a faint smirk—a smile that made several people at the table shift uncomfortably. He let the silence hang in the air like a thick, suffocating fog.
Julian, sitting right beside him, merely swirled the red wine in his glass. He wasn't angry. He didn't even look the slightest bit provoked. He was simply waiting.
Aidan Castellanos set his fork down, the sharp clack of silver against porcelain slicing through the tension like a blade.
"Interesting that you bring up logistics, Charlie," Aidan remarked, his tone flawlessly polite, though every single syllable landed like a physical blow. "Because in my capacity as Julian's legal counsel, I recently conducted a comprehensive audit of the Faulkner Estate portfolio. And as it turns out, your father, Guy, harbors some incredibly expensive hobbies."
Every eye at the table instantly snapped toward Guy Faulkner. The man, who had been methodically cutting his meat, froze entirely. His fork stopped dead in mid-air.
Declan Hunter, seated at the far end of the table, leaned forward. His coal-black eyes locked onto Guy without a single blink.
"My stepfather out in the Hamptons recently acquired a private debt acquisition firm," Declan stated, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "And care to take a wild guess? Guy Faulkner happens to be our single largest debtor. Those 'special event' properties of yours, Guy? Technically speaking, they belong to my family now."
Guy Faulkner turned to stone. Florence clamped a hand over her mouth. Charlie went deathly pale.
But it wasn't over.
Felicia Montgomery, sitting across the table, casually picked up her phone. She scrolled for a brief second, then placed the phone flat on the table, the screen facing upward for everyone to see.
"Speaking of Uncle Guy's special properties," she drawled in a bored, monotonous voice, "Theo and I got a little bored and decided to crack open the cloud gallery. Turns out, Uncle Guy is a top-tier VIP client at Miami 010. We have the reservation receipts. Don't blame us, Uncle Guy’s password was literally 'Florence123.' Can you imagine using your own wife's name as the password to a high-end prostitution ring?"
The atmosphere at the table shattered completely.
Charlie dropped his fork. The loud clatter of metal hitting the plate made several people flinch. Florence stared at Guy with an expression that defied description—a violent cocktail of rage, humiliation, and sheer terror. Guy Faulkner himself couldn't utter a single syllable. He looked exactly like a man who had just been forced to stare at his own corpse.
Felicia continued in the exact same deadpan tone, as if she were reading a grocery list.
"And that's not even all of it. Uncle Guy has some pretty... specific preferences. There are detailed logs requesting sessions with 'special requests.' Scat fetishes. Golden showers. There’s even a record of him requesting two gigolos at once while he... well, you can all use your imaginations. Everything is meticulously documented in their system. The dates, the times, and the names of the boys who serviced him."
Charlie stared at his father, his eyes unable to mask the absolute horror creeping in. "Dad...?"
Guy Faulkner couldn't answer. He just stared down at the plate in front of him as if the porcelain could somehow save his life.
Charlie spun around to face Julian. The arrogant swagger was entirely gone. He stood up from his chair, his movements shaky and uncoordinated.
"Julian... please. Do not leak this. I... I'm begging you. If this hits the press, the Faulkner family name will be obliterated. My father's... his businesses..."
Julian stared at Charlie with absolute, terrifying calm. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even smiling. He just looked at him the way one looks at an insect that has had its wings ripped off.
"Charlie," he said softly. "Just this afternoon, you had the absolute audacity to mock my husband in front of half the club. You had the nerve to weaponize a morality clause to destroy my household. And now you have the fucking balls to beg me for silence?"
Charlie swallowed hard. "I... I was wrong. I am so sorry."
"It isn't just you," Julian continued, his icy gaze sweeping across the entire table. "Several of you decided to play this little game. Beatrice," he said, locking eyes with his female cousin sitting next to Vicky. "Did you honestly think I didn't know exactly who was orchestrating that smear campaign on Instagram and Twitter? Did you think I was blind to the burner accounts framing Fabian as a 'predator' and a 'danger to children'? Did you think I didn't know it was you pulling the strings?"
Beatrice froze in sheer terror. Her face flushed a violent crimson.
Julian stood up slowly. He placed his napkin on the table with a deliberately slow, methodical movement.
"Florence," he said, turning his gaze to his aunt. "You constantly preach about wanting to protect the family name. Yet you are completely incapable of controlling your own stepson. If you cannot control Charlie, then I will control everything myself. And believe me... I will never be this gentle again."
Florence stared at Julian, her eyes welling with tears. "Julian... this is our family."
"This is no longer a family," Julian stated flatly. "This is a battlefield. And you are the ones who started the war."
Charlie spoke up again, his voice violently trembling. "Julian... please. Don't leak it. I'll back down. I'll withdraw the clause entirely. I'll apologize to everyone in public. Whatever you want. Just please don't leak my father's name to the press. Please."
A few other voices at the table started chiming in. Vicky, who had been radiating smug triumph just minutes ago, now looked genuinely terrified. Several other relatives who had been quietly backing Charlie also opened their mouths, pleading in tones entirely stripped of their former arrogance.
Julian listened to the desperate chorus of begging with an entirely impassive face. He let them exhaust themselves. Only when the table fell into absolute, deafening silence did he speak again.
"I won't leak it," he said quietly. "But on one condition. Charlie completely withdraws every single legal maneuver against Fabian and me. Beatrice permanently shuts down her pathetic smear campaign. And Florence... leash your goddamn stepson. Because if you don't, everything you are terrified of happening will happen. And I will not hesitate for a fraction of a second."
Daniel, who had been silent this entire time, finally spoke up. His voice was calm, but every word hit like a sledgehammer.
"Do you see now?" he asked, looking around the table. "I warned you all not to wake a sleeping dragon. Now you get to deal with the consequences."
Giorgina, sitting beside him, gave a slow nod, reaching her hand under the table to grip Daniel's. She didn't speak, but her gaze was more than enough to establish exactly whose side she was on.
Charlie collapsed back into his chair, his body entirely devoid of strength. He couldn't look anyone in the eye. Florence buried her face in her hands. Guy Faulkner remained frozen in his seat, looking as if his soul had officially vacated his body.
Julian looked down at Fabian for a brief moment. His husband was still sitting perfectly still, his face not showing an ounce of victory, only a bone-deep exhaustion. Julian reached his hand under the table and found Fabian's. He gripped it tightly.
That night, there were no victors smiling broadly.
There were only people who had lost in the most humiliating, catastrophic way possible.
And at the far end of the table, Declan Hunter took a slow sip of his champagne. He stared at Julian and Fabian with a thin, entirely unreadable smirk.
"Congratulations," he murmured softly, speaking only to himself. "You just burned the absolute last bridge."
Outside the terrace, the ocean wind picked up violently. The candles on the table flickered wildly, several of them instantly snuffed out by the sheer force of the gale.
The dinner from hell was finally over.
But the fires ignited that night... wouldn't be dying down anytime soon.
The chaos at the dinner table on Bash's terrace had reached its absolute boiling point. Guy Faulkner was still paralyzed in his chair, his face as pale as someone who had just seen a ghost. Florence covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes glassy with a mixture of overwhelming shame and blinding rage. Charlie Faulkner stood up, his body swaying unsteadily, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if terrified he might collapse. Vicky had stopped crying, but her eyes were still bloodshot and filled with a venomous hatred she could no longer hide.
Everyone was screaming. Florence was screaming at Guy. Charlie was screaming at Felicia. Several other relatives joined the fray, viciously turning on each other, desperately trying to pinpoint exactly who had leaked the secrets first. Their voices clashed with the sound of shattering glass and the howling ocean wind, causing the remaining candles in the center of the table to tremble violently.
Julian did not join the screaming match.
He simply sat back in his chair, one hand loosely holding a half-empty glass of red wine. His long fingers slowly swirled the glass, creating a tiny, dark vortex inside. His eyes swept across the entire table with an elegant, profound exhaustion—not the exhaustion of a man who had lost, but the exhaustion of a man who had held back for far too long.
"Did you honestly think," he finally spoke, his voice low but cutting enough to instantly silence Vicky's shrieking, "that you could weaponize my husband's past to steal what rightfully belongs to my children?"
Vicky opened her mouth to argue, but Julian immediately raised a hand.
"Casablanca money does not make us saints, Vicky," he continued flatly. "It just makes our sins significantly more expensive. And your sins... proved to be incredibly expensive tonight."
He looked his aunt dead in the eye. His gaze wasn't angry. It was calm. Terrifyingly calm.
"The person who handed over every single piece of dirt on Guy Faulkner," Julian said softly, "was your own daughter. Felicia. She’s the one who cracked his cloud. Along with Theo Vanderbilt. They even figured out that Uncle Guy’s password was 'Florence123.' Hilarious, isn't it? Using your own wife's name as the password to access a prostitution ring."
Vicky stared at her daughter with a completely shattered expression. Felicia, sitting at the far end of the table, merely offered a casual shrug, as if they were discussing what to have for dessert.
"And Jericho," Julian continued, keeping his eyes locked on Vicky, "the son you’ve always paraded around as the 'most normal' among us... just liquidated every single cent of his investments in Charlie's golf club. All to fund his brewery. Because George Halim and Theo Vanderbilt offered him three hundred and twenty million dollars. You really should have been smarter than your own son, Vicky. But clearly, you aren't."
Vicky stared at Julian, her eyes welling with fresh tears. The tears spilled silently down her cheeks, but she didn't sob. she just sat there, frozen, her body trembling slightly. For the first absolute time in her life, Vicky Montgomery had absolutely zero words left to defend herself.
Charlie, who had been standing, collapsed heavily back into his chair. He was dead pale. He looked at his stepfather, then at Julian, then down at the table. His mouth hung open, but no sound came out.
Julian set his wine glass down with an agonizingly slow movement. He turned his head toward Fabian, who was sitting right beside him.
Fabian hadn't spoken a single word. He was just staring at Julian with an awe so profound it bordered on disbelief, like a man witnessing a god descend to earth. In the middle of this absolute, deranged family circus, amidst the screaming, the tears, and the brutal betrayals, Fabian could only see Julian. It was as if his husband was the only person at the entire table who was still breathing calmly.
Julian offered him a small smile—a private smile meant only for Fabian. It wasn't a smile of victory. It wasn't an arrogant smirk. It was just the tired smile of a man who was still standing after the storm.
"Aidan," he said softly, without ever breaking eye contact with Fabian, "prepare the asset freeze documents for Charlie. If he wants to play dirty with my family, make sure he has to swim off Fisher Island."
Aidan Castellanos, sitting on Julian's other side, gave a single, curt nod. He had already opened his tablet before Julian even finished the sentence. His fingers flew across the screen in a blur.
"Already in motion," Aidan answered flatly. "By tomorrow morning, every single one of Charlie Faulkner's personal accounts will be frozen solid. Including the black accounts he used to pay the private investigators. I have also prepared the necessary documentation for Guy Faulkner. His 'special event' properties are, technically speaking, no longer his."
Charlie snapped his head up. His eyes were wide, flooded with tears and absolute terror.
"Julian... please," he whispered. His arrogant tone had been completely eradicated. "I... I'm begging you. Don't leak it. I'll back down. I'll withdraw every single lawsuit. I'll apologize on my knees in front of everyone. But please don't leak my father's name. Please."
A few other voices at the table started chiming in again. Vicky, who had been silent, was now crying softly. Florence stared at Julian with a totally destroyed expression.
"Julian," Florence said, her voice violently shaking, "this is still our family. Guy... he made a mistake. But he is still my husband. My children..."
Julian turned to look at his aunt. His gaze was no longer cold. Just incredibly tired.
"If you genuinely want to protect your family, Florence," he said softly, "then put a leash on your stepson. Charlie has been playing with fire for far too long. If you are incapable of stopping him, then I will stop him myself. And believe me... I will never be this gentle again."
Florence bowed her head. Her tears fell silently onto the teakwood table.
Julian stood up slowly. Every single eye instantly locked onto him. He stared down at the entire table—the family he had spent his life considering his own flesh and blood, who tonight had actively conspired to obliterate his husband and his children.
"I'm tired," he said quietly. "I'm tired of constantly having to defend myself. I'm tired of constantly having to explain myself. Tonight, it ends. You can all leave. You can all be as angry as you want. But starting tomorrow, if a single one of you even attempts to touch Fabian or my children ever again... then everything you are terrified of happening will happen. All of it."
He turned to Fabian. His husband was still seated, still looking up at him with that same profound awe. Julian extended a hand. Fabian took it without a second of hesitation.
The two of them walked away from the dinner table, never once looking back.
Behind them, the dinner table remained trapped in a suffocating, horrifying silence. Charlie still sat there, his face completely destroyed. Florence wept quietly. Vicky covered her face with both hands. Guy Faulkner remained frozen like a gargoyle.
Daniel, sitting at the far end of the table, finally spoke. His voice was calm, but laden with exhaustion.
Bash, sitting opposite him, merely raised his wine glass slightly in the direction Julian and Fabian had gone. A small, satisfied smirk played on his lips.
"Welcome to the new generation of the Casablanca family," he murmured softly. "You just witnessed exactly what happens when the dragon finally wakes up."
Outside the terrace, the ocean wind howled even louder. The candles on the dining table were almost entirely blown out. Only one remained lit—the candle flickering directly in front of Julian's empty chair.
Julian and Fabian walked slowly along the stone path leading back to their villa. Their hands were still tightly intertwined. The ocean breeze swept across their faces. In the distance, the crash of the waves sounded faint but steady.
Fabian stopped dead in the middle of the path. He pulled Julian's hand, forcing him to stop as well. Then, he pulled his husband into a crushing embrace, burying his face deep into the crook of Julian's neck.
"I don't even know what to say," Fabian murmured. His voice was trembling uncontrollably. "You... you just destroyed all of them for me."
Julian gently stroked Fabian's broad back. "Not for you. For us. For our kids."
Fabian pulled back slightly. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "I don't deserve this, Julian. I—"
Julian pressed a soft, firm kiss to his lips, immediately cutting off his words.
"You do," he whispered fiercely against Fabian's mouth. "You have always deserved it. And from this second forward, no one will ever dare touch you again. Including my own fucking family."
Fabian stared at Julian for a long time. Then he offered a small smile—a smile that was bone-tired, but incredibly genuine.
"You're exhausted," he said softly.
"Yeah," Julian answered honestly. "I'm so fucking tired."
Fabian squeezed Julian's hand even tighter. "Let's go home. Let them destroy themselves."
They continued walking under the faint, silvery moonlight. Behind them, Bash's villa still glowed with dim, amber lights. The muffled sounds of low, panicked conversation still drifted from the terrace—the sounds of people who had just been utterly annihilated in a war they had started themselves.
Julian didn't look back.
Tonight, he was finally done fighting.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, he felt like he would never have to fight alone ever again.
