Avery stared at the news feed glowing from his phone—Sloane's name smeared across every headline.
"Corruption, coverups, and crutches."
"Delaney Dynasty Implodes."
Vicente had offered silence. Ian had offered veiled threats. Cynthia had offered a smile with poison underneath. And Sloane… he'd offered him the truth. Bruised, bleeding, and painfully real.
And so Avery made a call.
He didn't dial Vicente.
He called Amara Delaney.
---
Amara's estate was a relic of old glamour—sunlit gardens, black-lacquered gates, and a wide pool shimmering like a weapon.
She met him outside in a silk robe and sunglasses, a glass of elderflower gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A panther lazed by her chaise lounge.
"Ah, the husband," she said with a raised brow. "You look like you've finally stopped pretending you're not in love with my grandson."
Avery flushed. "I didn't come here for small talk."
Amara smirked. "Good. I'm not in the mood to be polite."
