Chapter 5 - The War Goes Public
"I didn't bring this to you, Nova. Brooke did," Grayson said, his hands raised in surrender. "And I'm here to finish it."
Within twenty minutes, Grayson’s team had safely relocated Denise and Kai to a fortified, private medical estate owned by Ruth Mercer outside Charlottesville. The best cardiac specialists in Virginia were already waiting to oversee Denise’s care.
In the back of the armored Maybach, Nova sat across from Grayson. The rain battered the bulletproof glass.
"Why are you doing this, Grayson?" Nova asked, staring at him. "You could have fired me. You could have let Brooke have her tantrum. Your family's empire is tied to the Hathaways. Richard Hathaway controls state contracts worth billions."
Grayson leaned forward, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"When I was fifteen," he said softly, "I was trapped in a dark basement in Tirana with three broken ribs and water up to my knees. The men guarding us told us that no one was coming. They said our families had abandoned us. I gave up. I lay down in the mud to die."
Nova looked out the window, her jaw working.
"And then," Grayson continued, "a soldier kicked down that iron door. She had blood streaming down her temple and a bullet hole in her shoulder. She knelt down beside me, wiped the mud from my face, and said: *'On your feet, kid. Nobody gets left behind today.'*"
He reached across the space between them, his voice breaking. "You carried me four miles through an ambush, Nova. You took a piece of shrapnel that was meant for my neck. I spent nine years looking for you. Not to repay a debt—because that debt can never be repaid—but to make sure the woman who saved my soul was safe."
Nova took a ragged breath. The heavy stone she had carried inside her chest for nearly a decade began to crack.
Suddenly, Grayson’s tablet chimed with a dozen notifications.
He unlocked the screen. His face went pale with fury.
"Look at this," he hissed.
Brooke Hathaway had gone live across social media platforms, weeping crocodile tears for her three million followers.
On the screen, Brooke displayed a grainy, cropped surveillance photo of Nova from the ballroom, juxtaposed with an old, decontextualized field report Victor Kane had illegally hacked from an offshore database.
*"Tonight at the Richmond Grand, I was violently assaulted by a woman using a fake identity,"* Brooke sobbed to the camera. *"Her name is Nova Reyes, an unlicensed underground mercenary who was dishonorably discharged for an explosion that killed dozens of civilians in Eastern Europe. The Richmond Grand is harboring a dangerous criminal who poses a direct threat to high-profile guests. Tomorrow night, at the annual Richmond Foundation Charity Dinner, I will present full legal proof to the press."*
The comment section was exploding with outrage, death threats, and viral hashtags demanding Nova’s immediate arrest.
"She’s calling a press conference at the charity gala tomorrow night," Grayson said, his knuckles white. "She’s going to crucify you on national television."
Nova looked down at her hands—the hands that had held dying comrades, carried frightened children, and served champagne to arrogant billionaires.
She smiled. It was a cold, terrifying, beautiful smile.
May you like
"Let her call the press," Nova said.
***
