Chapter 3

Months passed. The D.C. gossip machine, initially in overdrive about my broken engagement, eventually found new scandals to feast on. Ethan Prescott, surprisingly, weathered the storm. Or rather, he and Izzy manufactured a new narrative.

He played the contrite, flawed man, taken advantage of by a cunning Izzy, but ultimately taking responsibility for his unborn child. Izzy, for her part, became a master of the PR-spun victim narrative. She was the wronged woman, finding strength for her baby. Sympathy, disgustingly, tilted her way.

Ethan, ruthless as ever, used the scandal to his advantage. He pushed through a controversial piece of legislation, something about campaign finance reform that ironically benefited his shadowy backers. He painted himself as a man dedicated to public service despite personal turmoil. His political capital, instead of plummeting, actually rose. He was hailed as resilient, a fighter.

I watched it all from a distance. My new apartment was smaller, more discreet, a strategic command center rather than a home. My father' s files, the ones he' d entrusted to me, were my constant companions. Secrets, leverage, a web of connections that spanned decades.

I didn' t feel anger watching Ethan' s ascent. Or Izzy' s saccharine media appearances. What I felt was a detached focus, like a sniper watching targets move into range. Their current success was irrelevant to my long game.

President Thompson had been true to his word. Discreetly, funds were made available. Resources. Information. Mr. Davies, his stoic Chief of Staff, became my infrequent, almost invisible point of contact. He never asked questions, just facilitated. He knew who I was. He knew about my father. He knew about the assassination attempt I' d foiled.

My days were spent in quiet diligence. I built my network, not the glittering social kind, but the kind that operated in shadows. I analyzed data, traced money, identified weaknesses in the corrupt structures Ethan and his ilk thrived in. My father had taught me patience, strategy, the art of the invisible war.

My mother called sometimes, her voice still laced with a hint of worry.

"Are you sure you're alright, Ava? You're so... quiet these days."

"I'm working on a new project, Mom," I'd tell her. "It's demanding."

It was the truth, in a way. My project was justice. My project was revenge.

Ethan and Izzy could have their temporary victories, their public acclaim. They were building their house on sand. I was laying a foundation of granite, preparing for a storm they couldn't even imagine. Their rise only made their eventual fall more satisfying to contemplate. My indifference was my shield, my focus my weapon. The board was set. My pieces were moving.