“There’s something in your drink—the black girl whispered to the billionaire. The man’s hair stood on end when he found out what was there

You didn’t have to clap. He said. She didn’t have to tell the truth either.

Maya replied. They drove home with the windows down. The warm California air weaving through the car.

Maya hummed softly to a Sam Cooke song on the radio. Cyrus glanced over. You really believe people can change.

I believe people can choose. She said. That’s what matters.

Later that night. Cyrus stood at the fireplace. Staring at an old photo him.

Vanessa. And Miles at a charity gala. He took a breath and dropped it into the flames.

It curled. Blackened. And vanished.

Maya walked in with a new folder. What’s this? He asked. Proposals for the Truth and Transparency Initiative.

You said you wanted to rebuild. I figured we’d start with that. Cyrus opened it.

Inside were ideas for community reporting. Internal oversight teams. Youth boards.

And at the bottom. A note scribbled in Maya’s handwriting. Justice isn’t about revenge.

It’s about making sure no one else gets hurt. He looked at her. Then back at the folder.

Looks like I’ve got some homework. Maya grinned. Good thing you know a straight A student.

Outside. The night deepened. But for the first time in weeks.

The darkness didn’t feel so heavy. Three days after Lucille’s confession shook the public. The story refused to die.

Cable news shows debated it endlessly. Op-eds praised Cyrus Bennett’s restraint. And Maya Williams’s strange but powerful role in the unraveling.

But inside the Bennett estate. Things were far from calm. Cyrus sat alone in his study.

Staring at a stack of sealed envelopes. They were from board members. Executives.

And politicians some offering support. Others quietly backing away. But one envelope caught his eye.

It bore no return address and no seal. Inside was a photograph. Vanessa.

She stood beside an unfamiliar man in a dark suit. They were shaking hands in front of a small private airfield. Scrawled across the back of the photo in red pen was a message.

She’s not done. And she’s not alone. Cyrus stood slowly.

Heart pounding. He crossed the room and picked up the landline. Get me Jensen.

Now. Minutes later. Jensen’s voice came through the receiver.

Low and clear. We were afraid of this. Who’s the man in the photo? Name’s Garrett Winslow.

Private contractor. Former NSA. He vanished from official records five years ago.

And now he’s working with Vanessa? Looks like it. And if Winslow’s involved. She’s moving beyond corporate espionage.

This could be federal. Cyrus’s jaw clenched. I want security doubled around Maya.

She’s too close now. Meanwhile. Maya was at the local library.

Leafing through stacks of printed pages and old case files. She sat at a table beneath a flickering fluorescent light. Highlighting names.

Dates. And notes she had copied from the digital archive. Next to her was a printed list of foundation donors from the past five years.

She had circled three names. One of them. She couldn’t shake Harland Ellison.

Harland had attended every annual fundraiser. Donated heavily to youth programs. And was once photographed with Vanessa.

At a retreat in Aspen. A quick background check showed he also owned multiple shell companies tied to offshore accounts. Maya.

A voice called gently. It was Mrs. Nguyen. The librarian.

Closing time in ten minutes, sweetie. Thank you, ma’am. Maya said.

Gathering her notes. She stepped into the night air. The library parking lot was nearly empty.

Her breath caught. When she spotted a dark SUV across the street. It wasn’t parked illegally.

But something about the way it just sat there. Engine off. Made her spine tighten.

She took a deep breath. Pulled out her phone. And dialed Cyrus…