« Elle n’est pas partie ! » hurla une pauvre petite fille aux funérailles de la femme du milliardaire — et le cercueil scellé déclencha une série d’événements qui transformèrent le chagrin en une vérité à laquelle personne n’était préparé.

Grant stepped near the door, voice low but steady.

“Tessa. Stop. This is over.”

“You gave her everything!” Tessa shrieked. “She got the life I worked for! I lost everything while she smiled in diamonds!”

Grant’s chest tightened with disgust. “You didn’t want fairness,” he said. “You wanted her erased.”

While Grant spoke, the team entered through a side opening with speed and precision.

Glass shattered.

Commands echoed.

Tessa was restrained in seconds.

And in the corner—tied to a chair—was Serena.

Alive.

Eyes wide. Face drawn.

But still Serena.

Grant ran to her like he’d been running for months.

When the tape was removed from her mouth, she didn’t scream.

She whispered, hoarse and shaking, “I knew you’d come.”

Grant hugged her carefully, as if holding her too tightly might break what was left of her strength.

Downstairs, cameras flashed outside like lightning.

But Grant walked past the press without a word, guiding Serena toward the SUV where Addie waited.

Serena looked at the small girl in the seat, the child with scraped knees and brave eyes.

“Who is she?” Serena asked softly.

Grant’s voice broke. “Her name is Addie. She saw you when nobody else did. She stopped the memorial.”

Serena—weak, unsteady—leaned down and wrapped her arms around Addie.