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The unfinished sentence hangs between us, heavy with possibility and risk.

Los Angeles greets us with relentless sunshine and a dry heat that clings to my skin as we step off the plane. The city sprawls before us, a glittering expanse of concrete and glass that seems to stretch endlessly toward the horizon.

Our cab weaves through traffic, passing palm-lined streets and sleek skyscrapers. It's nothing like Boston's historic charm and narrow winding streets. Here, everything feels newer, shinier, designed to impress.

Just like the Saints themselves.

We check into a modest hotel downtown—nothing flashy enough to draw attention, but close enough to the venue where the gala will be held. Ethan immediately sets up his laptop, fingers flying over the keys as he establishes secure connections with his FBI contact.

Later, as dusk settles over the city, we take a cab to the venue for reconnaissance. The driver drives slowly past the imposing building, taking in the flurry of activity as workers set up for tomorrow night's gala.

Then Ethan gives him the address of the Saint mansion and my stomach knots at the sight of it—a sprawling Mediterranean-style estate that seems to lord over its neighbors with arrogant grandeur. Is Ares in there right now?

"Tomorrow night," Ethan says quietly. "Tomorrow night, everything changes."

Back at the hotel, I shower away the grime of travel, letting the hot water sluice over my tired muscles. When I emerge, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, Ethan is still at his laptop, but there's a new energy about him.

"My contact will come by tomorrow to walk us through what will happen," he says without looking up.

I nod, wanting desperately to believe this is happening but afraid this might go wrong.

We spend the rest of the evening finalizing details, ordering room service that neither of us has the appetite to finish.

When exhaustion finally claims me, I dream of Ares—not the broken man I left behind, but the boy with the compass tattoo who promised to always find his way back to me.

Morning breaks with merciless brightness, sunlight streaming through the gaps in the hotel curtains. I wake with a start, momentarily disoriented before the weight of the day ahead settles over me.

Today. Today everything might change, if it goes according to the plan.

Ethan is already up, dressed in a crisp suit that makes him look every inch the corporate executive. He hands me a garment bag.

"For tonight," he explains. "Thought you might need something... impactful."

Inside is a dress—emerald green silk that will match my eyes and contrast with my red hair, cut in clean, elegant lines that speak of confidence and power. It's perfect.

"How did you—"

"I know people," he says with a wink. "Besides, if you're going to crash a Saint gala, you should look the part."

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. We meet briefly with Ethan's FBI contact—a stern-faced woman who examined Gran's diary and coded papers with methodical precision.

"The information from your grandmother has been exactly what we needed," she tells us, her professional demeanor cracking slightly to reveal genuine excitement. "And more. Those codes provide access to everything we've been trying to uncover for years."

"We'll be in position by eight," she adds.

By late afternoon, nervous energy has me pacing the hotel room, unable to sit still. Ethan watches me with a mixture of amusement and concern.

"You should eat something," he suggests, gesturing to the untouched sandwich on the desk.

I shake my head. "Couldn't keep it down if I tried."

When it's finally time to dress, I move as if in a dream, sliding the silk over my skin, applying makeup with careful precision.

The woman who stares back at me from the mirror is both familiar and strange—the same green eyes and red hair, but with a determination in her gaze that wasn't there before.

This is who I am now. Not the scared girl who lost everything, but a woman ready to fight for what matters.

Ethan whistles low when I emerge from the bathroom. "Theodore Saint is going to have a coronary when he sees you walking into his precious gala."

I manage a small smile. "Rather not. Death would be too easy an escape. He needs to pay for what he did—the long, public, humiliating way."

"That's my girl," Ethan says with a grin. "Revenge served ice cold with a side of justice."

The cab drops us at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the entrance of the venue. Already, I can see the glitter of lights, hear the distant murmur of voices and soft music. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure Ethan must hear it.

"Last chance to back out," he says quietly.

I shake my head. "Not a chance."

We begin the walk up the stairs, each step bringing us closer to the confrontation that's been years in the making. Closer to Ares.

Ethan reaches for my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Time to end this chapter and start a new one."

I steel myself, determination burning in my chest like a flame. "Let's go get our Sainty back."

The venue looms before us, windows blazing with light, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out into the night. I take a deep breath.

This is it. The tipping point.

I step forward, ready to reclaim everything the Saints tried to take from me.