Sentinels of the Celestial Realm - Nothing in that world Part 1

by Corey Gould

Center of this intrigue is a highly trained officer from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, cadre commander with deep ties to military intelligence. Rachel Marron, the world-renowned black pop star fleeing social unrest in the US, she must navigate the turmoil of a global thriller while grappling with his own demons. Inspired by Whitney Houston's movie The Bodyguard and her life.

11. A state affair

Chapter 11: A state affair

5th Avenue

Before Marcus can say another word...

Ivy grabs his hand—small, warm, commanding—and pulls him through the doors of the LEGO flagship store. The press erupts as caffeine-fed drones, cameras flashing in relentless staccato. The store's AI attempts polite crowd control. It projects pastel-hued holographic arrows and chirps, "Welcome, Miss Reed and Mr. Rothko!"

Outside, the media mob surges. Hover-cams and paparazzi quadcopters buzz, angry insects, shuttering with aggressive software precision. Each flashes a synthetic lightning bolt. Each lens tracks facial heat signatures for exclusives.

The shop doesn't glow—it pulses, alive with ambient intelligence and overengineered charm. Screens recognize Ivy and the presumed Jasper immediately. A bright burst of pink and gold spirals across a holographic arch as the store's AI welcomes them as royalty.

Greg follows behind, jaw set. Portman plays the role of Rothko's bodyguard with the grim commitment of a man who suspects he's wandered into an improve theater nightmare. The major's stocky, built in the same manner as a light heavyweight boxer in a well-cut coat. Thick brown hair, trimmed so it doesn't quite touch his ears. A scar slices an eyebrow. The habitual lift of one side of his upper lip makes him look more arrogant than he means to.

The Royal Marine still tries to piece together this entire absurd situation. He trails after them, keeping up the charade.

Inside...

Ivy pulls Marcus straight to the massive LEGO Death Star. That thing, animated, humming with a low thrum— their faces lit with pure delight. It rotates with grace. That's not a build—it's an event. Motion sensors trigger its micro-cinematics. Miniature Imperial fighters glide across a rotating orbit ring. The simulated superlaser charges in its crater. It casts a rhythmic green pulse that paints Ivy's face in strobing hues of menace and wonder.

Ivy beams, small and fierce under the lights. Petite frame and high-heeled boots. The artificial illumination makes out of her hair a platinum waterfall, cascading down her back. Cameras pop with fireworks behind them as she pulls Marcus by the hand.

The LEGO showroom feels as if it's a tech monastery. The air is crisp, sterilized with hints of citrus and ozone. Holoscreens drift through the ambiance of pure jellyfish, projecting rotating displays of brick-built fantasy. Star Wars, vintage architecture, collectible mechs. A few of the shelves adjust themselves with a soft mechanical whir. Every projection reshapes its layout as Ivy and a false Jasper approach.

The New Yorker singer vibrates with excitement. Her bronze face, a high-definition beauty, sculpted and shining. Marcus observes her, fascinated, as though pulled into her elation. His character shifts, something softer beneath the mask of Rothko.

She stands still for a heartbeat, then gasps.

Her expression is pure joy. Real, unscripted, a child-like swell of wonder that seems to lift her out of her body. Gallagher watches, transfixed. For a moment, her humor becomes a gravitational field.

Marcus' short blond hair glows under the store's bioluminescent strip lighting and lets his practiced smirk slip. What rises in its place is something far quieter.

Behind them, Greg shifts his weight and mutters, "What the hell am I watching." The Brit diplomat was a calculating machine moments ago. Now? He was childlike, enthralled by plastic bricks and Ivy Reed's enthusiasm.

The singer hides it behind her glamour, but this slips out when she's unguarded. "Funny how something made of plastic can feel more stable than people." Ivy, eyes stay on the Death Star, whispers almost to herself, "This spot makes me sense that I still exist."

Marcus doesn't smile at that. Not this time. He watches her, a psych profile chamber built for him to crack and gives him its first real answer.

The scaterman whispers to the false Hollywood actor, tone clipped. "You gone soft?"

Marcus turns in a hush, his voice quieter, conspiratorial. "Poor thing. Sorry for her."

Greg scoffs. "You feel anything? Thought you were one of those algorithm boys in a suit."

"She's like that because of Imani's trauma," Marcus says.

The Royal Marine frowns. "Imani?" Not that Greg doesn't know that Ivy Reed is a stage name. It's more Marcus's enthusiasm that surprises him.

Marcus's tone stays flat, but his words are strange, almost fond. "Imani Vivienne Richardson. That's her real appellation. She's cute!"

Portman's face scrunches. "You fancy her?"

Marcus doesn't even blink. "I don't find black women attractive."

Greg scoffs, incredulous. "Right now, you told me: She's cute."

The British diplomat explains, "I never said anything like that."

The major is completely bewildered.

Marcus nods, gazes drifting back to Ivy. "Her colonialist speech, so funny, it's as if she fights the English language with two left feet. It's hilarious. She tries so hard, bless her. And never wins."

The Marines officer let out a noise that might be a laugh if it weren't filled with unease. "Then what trauma you're dealing with."

Marcus turns to him, and in an instant, the warmth is gone. His eyes cut through the haze of neon toy glow.

"Deadwater Rock."

The speech, void of anything resembling human.

Greg stiffens. The name hits, a roundhouse to the ribs. Cold. Brutal. Not a clime. A sentence. He knows what that term means. A location no one returns from whole.

He tries to keep his cadence steady. "Did you know John Scatter?"

Marcus nods, then walks back toward Ivy. That moment vanishes from his face as if it never existed. A breath later, he beams again. His posture is graceful, the kind you only get from someone who runs daily at 5AM in the rain. Short blond hair, not quite military—too fashionable for that.

"Ivy, do you think they've got an X-Wing tucked away in here too? I bet the wings open."

She laughs a quick high trill. "Please, that's my ride."

Greg lingers near the LEGO Death Star. Marcus Gallagher switches personalities more as a child flipping between hats. One moment bright with Ivy's delight, the next, dead-eyed with menace. Portman can't keep up.

He pulls out his phone, thumbing into and out of alerts. Rachel Marron is still trending. Of course, she is.

As Ivy marvels at the Lego Death Star, Marcus's gaze flicks around the store—not aimless, not distracted, but calculated. His aquamarine eyes sweep the crowd like radar. He's tracking body weight shifts, scanning shoes, handbags, the size of their pupils. Then he leans in, his voice low, conspiratorial, warm with a pinch of sarcasm.

Marcus whispers, "See the woman to your left? Brown flats, matching trench, chewing her thumbnail—she came here to meet someone who didn't show. No doubt a first date. Look at that wristwatch. She polished it before she left home. That's heartbreak, that is."

A beat, Ivy glances, then stifle a giggle.

He says, "And the kid by the Millennium Falcon? Pretending to play, but his eyes are on the bloke at checkout. That's Dad. Mum's not here. Judging by the shoulder brace under his hoodie, Dad got full custody."

She answers with a smile, "You're making that up."

Meanwhile...

The scaterman lingers a few steps behind, arms crossed, his stare narrowing as he observes Marcus. He recognizes this tactic. Not mere observation, but a calculated reading of the environment and its occupants. Greg's unease grows, sensing Marcus's manipulation of the scene.

Then the store's AI turns toward the Royal Marine.

The retinal scanners track him longer than they should. One of the wall screens lights up:

IDENTITY STATUS: NON-RELEVANT.

ACCESS: PUBLIC.

A few kids laugh. A teenager points. "That guy got flagged as nobody."

Another of them whispers something about "Background NPCs."

The Briton clenches his jaw. "Oh, come on—"

The room still buzzes with an electric hum, but as the AI system kicks into gear, the atmosphere shifts. All notes float in the air as though they, too, are weightless. The computer-generated singing echoes in a distorted harmony: "Spaceman, spaceman, coming to take you far away."

But in a quiet corner of the store, at a distance to the Death Star display...

A man in an expensive gray coat watches it all unfold through a tablet. Special Agent Quentin Holt, FBI counter-intel, smirks as biometric lines spiral across Greg Portman's face on the flat panel. The scan completes, overlays his FBI file, and pings green.

Holt's tablet captures biometric data, the display pulsing as it locks onto the British renegade. "That's it," he utters. "We've got him."

Special Agent Sade Prescott, sharp-eyed, glances down at the screen.

And meanwhile...

Marcus glances to the end of the cathedral of curated chaos, where Quentin Holt and Sade Prescott seem they're browsing. Marcus clocks the extra-deep scan on the Marine officer—the AI's long hesitation, the faint twitch in Greg's jaw. He says nothing. Doesn't interfere. Files it away like a man cataloging clouds before a storm.

Special Agent Sade Prescott, tall, efficient, swipes a green-inked clearance band across the tablet.

Quentin exhales. "Let's go."

They melt back into the store's edge. They vanish, their mission accomplished without raising alarm.

Ivy smirks, playing along: "And the woman near the architecture models, tapping her foot?"

Marcus takes a look, "Ah, her. Notice the stack of instruction manuals she's clutching? A perfectionist, assembling a complex set tonight. The foot tapping? Impatience with the cashier's pace. "

Ivy chuckles, "You're quite the observer. "

Marcus says, "It's all about the details. People often reveal more than they intend."

A low hum pulses in the air—subsonic, almost felt more than heard. A puff of dry ice slithers across the floor tiles and seems fog escaping a vault. A waiter dressed as Darth Vader glides toward them—not walking, gliding. His black cape lifted from the floor with every step, as if repelled by some unseen force. Red LEDs blink behind the grill of his helmet, pulsing in rhythm with his steps. The sound of an artificial respirator plays from somewhere inside his chest plate.

Hovering inches above the waiter's tray, five crystal glasses levitate as if they are lazy satellites. Each one holds a layered drink that looks ready to explode. An ultraviolet syrup pools at the base, fading up through amber, then liquid gold, and finally into a misty sky-blue top layer that seems to fizz in slow motion. Cool fog spills off the rims, curling as a sentient smoke. The scent hits Marcus first—bright orange peel, sharp static, and something... old money. That taste reminds him of an alien perfume.

The shop manager, dressed in a white-on-white ensemble that could double as a clone officer or a fashion statement, materializes at Ivy's elbow. "On the house," she beams. "For our special guests."

Ivy, pocket-sized and powerful in her flaming red coat, turns to Marcus with a sparkle in her eye. Her lashes shine with gloss-like microfibers from a fashion-tech runway. "You're already used to stardom?"

Marcus flashes a grin—crooked, cinematic, practiced down to the microexpression. "No."

She laughs, a voice dipped in bourbon and velvet. "It has its perks. You get free weird stuff for breathing in the right ZIP code."

Marcus lifts his tumbler with a mock solemn nod. "Oh yeah, in politics, that's called socialism. In L.A., it's called Tuesday."

Marcus lifts a chalice as if auditioning for a role. "But admit?" he murmurs, clinking against hers. "I'd trade this politics for a beer with an actual label."

Ivy doesn't hesitate. She grabs a goblet with the decisiveness of someone who's never burned gras-flavored kombucha.

Marcus stares at her, surprised. "You're gonna drink that?"

"Why not?" she shrugs.

"I don't know. Most women I meet in New York before they take a sip of anything, they run me through their entire medical file."

She raises an eyebrow, the highball already halfway to her lips.

"I get the allergy list," Marcus continues. "Then it's 'Is this cruelty-free? Was the tequila harvested during a full moon?' I tell them alcohol is made by microscopic creatures forced into unpaid labor. Yeast. Bacteria. Noble tiny bastards."

Ivy starts to bring the glass to her mouth, then pauses, her lips parting a little. She raises an eyebrow. "I don't have any allergies."

Marcus nods, satisfied. "Then it's, 'Is this vegan?' And then they ask, 'Were the bacteria at least free-range?' So I explain—no. They became tortured. Left to starve. Then incinerated. Just... wiped out in boiling ethanol. We commit genocide for happy hour."

He snorts. "Then they burst into tears and schedule a session with their trauma counselor."

There's a pause—not dramatic, but charged the same way static on a wool sweater does.

Still, Ivy looks at him amused. "Listening to you, I can assume you avoid women from New York?"

She sips her drink—a misting prism of violet, gold, and sky-blue, melting into indigo chaos—and raises a brow.

Marcus exhales as if he's been waiting years for someone to ask. "Once you've dated one of those East Coast priestesses of cosmic wellness, you've dated them all. It's as if falling in love with a humanitarian robot who runs on oat milk and persecution complexes. She can't decide between seventy-two genders but is sure about building Utopia and saving the global climate along the way. And all because she thinks she can think critically. The only critical thing about them is their state of mind."

Ivy covers her mouth, giggling as if she hasn't in years. A bit of her drink sloshes over the rim and trails down her hand, which reeks of fermented citrus. A few bystanders begin snapping photos from across the store. Someone tries to tag the scene in real-time, but the AI filters blur Marcus's face with sparkles and an ominous copyright watermark.

"You're laughing! But… " Marcus looks shocked. "As soon as they know you have some money, they'll bite like ticks and try to convert you to their green Khmer religion. I'm telling you, once you let an Artaman hippie into your house, get her housebreak. Otherwise, she'll pee in your shower because the earth goddess Gaia told her. And she'll shit in every corner to build an altar to the god Humus. They don't know if they're lesbian-adjacent, mushroom spiritualists, or traumatized by quinoa."

Ivy breaks again. Her laughter echoes under the sleek domed ceiling, it seems to wind through a glass canyon. Lights from the Lego Death Star flare with each spike in her vocal pitch.

Behind her, two other augmented tourists begin whispering and syncing their neural feeds to grab a tag.

Ivy downs what's left of her now-violet drink sets the highball aside and leans close. "You're an absolute menace."

He raises his own tumbler. "To free-range bacteria."

Ivy lets out a laugh—sharp, real. A few paparazzi UAVs hum higher in the air, mosquitoes drunk on celebrity pheromones.

The room around them dips into a lower hum as the AI dims the lighting. In that way it's mimicking twilight on an alien planet, complete with a scent pulse of synthetic stardust and vanilla ozone. Ivy takes a step toward the display of glowing nebula dresses and holographic headbands, still giggling. Marcus follows, hands in his coat pockets, watching the crowd watch him.

They think they're seeing Jasper Rothko.

Greg Portman, hiding in the shadow of a chrome mannequin, knows better.

Marcus tilts his head, studying Ivy. "You tattooed?"

She gives him a side-eye so sharp it could sever a data cable. "Excuse me?"

"Trying to figure out the species," he declares. "You give off major ink energy."

"Nope," she snaps.

"Good. I can't handle another woman explaining the kanji on her spine. 'It means abundance.' No, it doesn't." He switches into a falsetto, then drops into his usual tone. "I speak Japanese, you daft nut. It means 'noodle cart.'"

Ivy breaks, her laughter slipping through. "You're outta your mind."

Marcus doesn't deny it. He grins, teeth white and wolfish. "And yet... here you are."

Before Ivy can reply...

A tall girl with blue hair and three smart tattoos pulsing on her collarbone appears beside them. She holds a translucent phone as if it's a relic from a digital temple.

"Oh my God," she breathes. "It's you."

Marcus doesn't even flinch. His smile stays locked in place as if it's laminated.

The juvenile pivots, already in a selfie position, thumb hovering. "You're Jasper Rothko, right? From Run all Nights?" Her eyebrows lift. She steps back with practiced grace, a social ninja dodging a flying drink.

Marcus leans closer to the phone, flashing a tired, dazzling grin. "Of course, sweetheart. Hit that angle—you're glowing."

The signorina squeals as if a kettle and taps the shutter with religious devotion. Behind her, two other shoppers are whispering and pretending not to point.

"Can I tag you?" the adolescent asks, eyes wide. "You have FaceBuzz, right?"

"Only on alternate Wednesdays," Marcus states. "The rest of the time I'm in rehab."

The chick stares, confused. Marcus gives her a wink with no warmth in it.

She totters off, already uploading, mumbling to herself, "Oh my God, Jasper's not in rehab, is he?"

Marcus turns back to Ivy, deadpan. "Fame become herpes. It keeps popping up when you least want it."

Ivy doesn't answer. She's laughing again—harder this time, she can't help it. She lifts her glass and actually drinks, shaking her head.

"You're a menace," she affirms, eyes gleaming.

Marcus raises his glass in a toast. "To free-range bacteria."

The ambient noise from the AI system fades as the crowd around them finishes their drinks, leaving the air feeling lighter, quieter. Ivy stands near the glowing Lego Death Star, scanning the room with a sharp but playful eye.

Greg Portman scrolls with his thumb, the cheap café espresso on the table beside him growing lukewarm and bitter.

New Number One Song: 'Queen of the Night' Still Reigns. Rachel Marron's Oscar Chances: The Academy Can't Ignore Her This Year. Labour MP Zarah Zarenknecht Sounds Alarm: 'A Dangerous Power Cluster is Forming Around the Queen of the Night.' Public Fight at the Waldorf Astoria: The Voice and Lazy Gun at Odds—Media Stunt or Real Trouble?

Greg snorts at that last headline. Lazy Gun. Wesley Black, Rachel Marron's house-trained delinquent. A walking neon sign for codependency and expensive bad decisions. The tabloids live for it, but Greg's never had a chance for personal spectacle. He scrolls to the Zarenknecht headline. That matters.

The video opens with the grainy tension of a live feed from the House of Commons. Zarah Zarenknecht rises, neck stiff with contempt.

"Isn't it true, General," she says, voice cut-glass sharp, "that all the military tribunes are your so-called hawks?"

General Ordlaf of Astgill doesn't blink. His eye—a cold little disc of titanium nestled beneath his brow—twitches. "That's nonsense."

But it isn't.

Portman knows how the game works. Project P.A.L.I.S.A.D.E. was never for everyone. Or as the Ministry preferred to pitch it...

Preparatory Academy for Leadership in Strategic and Defence Environments.

A shambles of an acronym. And yet, it did what it said on the tin. It was a sharp-edged solution to a specific problem: make Britain defensible after NATO crumbled. Cut the bureaucracy. Train the best. Prepare them young.

Greg was twelve when he dropped into CLAP at Credenhill. Twelve years old and already in boots. All day breath visible in the morning frost. Vomiting during 5am tactical runs while shouted at by a staff sergeant who hadn't blinked since Thatcher died.

CLAP, Commissioned Leadership Advancement Program. A sort of Eton for Kid-soldiers, minus the Greek and the rowing. Discipline, mud, and the long slow grind of transformation. No comfort. No mercy. No parents.

Most didn't make it past the first year. The program called it "attrition." The Royal Marine officer called it "failing to matter." The Ministry called it "too expensive."

But the ones who stayed—who survived—they scattered across the military as high-grade weaponry.

All tribunes were Hawks.

Greg? He wasn't a Hawk.

Never invited to the briefings Ordlaf held behind closed doors. Never called "one of mine" the way others were. He did everything right. High marks. Sharp timing. Faultless loyalty. And still—he watched Marcus.

Marcus Gallagher. The mistake with a badge. Did everything sideways. Talked back. Went off-script. Lied to everyone except the mission file. Ordlaf treated him as a secret weapon that didn't need polishing.

The major knew what that meant. Marcus had something he didn't. Ordlaf wanted improvisers. Agents who'd blow up the building and still get the intel.

Greg followed the map. That used to be enough.

He watches the Commons spiral into chaos.

Then, the reveal.

With a flourish, Zarenknecht activates a hologram.

Thirteen faces.

Names.

Military tribunes.

Gasps ripples through the room.

The screen shows classified documents—genuine, unredacted. A leak on this level is unthinkable.

Portman blinks, then leans in.

He recognizes some of the faces. Not all, but enough. Each of them holds command over one of the thirteen Strategic Zones. The rest fade into Greg's peripheral memory.

But it's not the names. It's the timing.

All of them—every single one—was formed in the decade of the failure of CLAP. Or what the public told was a failure.

Zarenknecht stands tall, her tone cold.

"Isn't it true, General, that you are an old friend of the chef of counterintelligence, Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron? And that the military tribune for London is part of his family?"

Greg freezes.

The House of Commons dissolves into chaos.

Torrie MPs shout across the aisle. Somebody from the back benches yells, "Germ spy!"

Another from Labour, "Conspiracy theorist!"

One of Zarenknecht's own party members blurts out, "Zarah Zarenknecht is an old Anglo-Saxon name!"

"No, it's not," someone snaps back. "That's a shiteater name."

That triggers a betrayal.

"Splitter!" his party colleague screams, her voice breaking with rage.

Silence follows. Dense. Viscous.

Ordlaf's silence is even worse.

He snaps his head toward her but says nothing.

He doesn't need to.

Portman knows that pause. Knows what it means.

That was the moment everything she said became real.

And then: Zarenknecht became seized.

Military police storm the chamber. Two plainclothes officers seize her by the arms. She doesn't fight. She lifts her chin as they drag her away.

"They call themselves a democracy! They blaspheme the Moskal Empire, but look at Great Britain! Look at them—the fascists! But I will continue to battle against the oppressed, for freedom, even from prison!"

The British renegade's thumb hovers over the screen. He rubs his mouth.

The chamber folds into itself with the kind of confusion The Royal Marine's been seeing more often lately. No one knows what counts anymore. Patriotism, betrayal, truth—it's all drowned in noise.

Greg rubs a hand over his mouth. The pieces are moving fast.

The camera finds Ordlaf again. The faint whir of his artificial eye betrays tension. Not fear. It's the awareness that this part of the game is already lost.

Ordlaf shakes his head. A quiet whirr from his mechanical eye gives away his tension. "Baseless," he says.

The Brit officer scrolls back and clicks the link...

Public Fight at the Waldorf Astoria: The Voice and Lazy Gun at Odds—Media Stunt or Real Trouble?

The video loads.

The shaky footage from a hotel guest's phone. The Waldorf lobby—white stone floors, chandeliers, boutique furniture nobody ever sits on. Rachel Marron and Ivy striding across it as if the world belongs to them.

The video, grainy and shot from a poor angle, fills Greg's screen.

Then—Wesley Black's voice. Recorded low, but distinct.

"Why are you dragging Ivy along when you're supposed to be having an 'interesting evening' with some guy?"

Rachel stops.

Turns.

"If I don't find what I need at home, I'll look for it somewhere else."

There's a shift in the room. The gasps from bystanders sound tinny through the phone speaker, but the damage is unmistakable. Her words land like a thrown brick. There's no coming back from that line.

The video cuts to a talk show. Host in a lilac pantsuit, teeth like ice cubes. She turns to her guest with an excited gleam.

"Celebrity expert Marlene Harper joins us! Marlene, what do you make of this?"

The Brit doesn't listen.

His thoughts have already moved.

Zarenknecht knew about the Hawks. About Gaderian. About the connections between Rachel Marron and the top of military counterintelligence.

And now Rachel's name is on his phone.

His stomach churns.

What more is Greg not seeing?

The pieces move again. Faster this time.

His stomach tightens.

Do they know each other?

The Royal Marine watches as the footage cuts to a talk-show segment.

Portman's jaw tightens.

The segment cuts again—this time to an interview with the hotel receptionists.

"We don't want to name names, but in choosing this man, Miss Marron took a patriotic choice."

The host leans forward, eyes sharp. "Can you give us any details?"

The second receptionist glances at her colleague, then answers with rehearsed care. "She picked a gentleman who keeps a low profile and avoids publicity."

The major narrows his eyes. British? Rachel Marron is both. He exhales, slow and even. The shape of it is becoming clearer.

Then, the final segment: footage from the restaurant.

"This should have been the clearest evidence," the host says, her voice now edged with exaggerated frustration. "But due to a technical glitch, the footage became damaged. Where the man should be standing… well."

The clip plays. Greg stares.

Rachel is there, front and center—vivid, emotional, caught mid-step. But the person across from her is something else. Not invisible. Not quite visible. An outline, a presence. The shape of a someone how is made out of light and distortion. A warped silhouette, no features, no clues. Just something... wrong.

A ghost of someone who wasn't supposed to become caught on film.

The English clench his jaw.

He knows who it is.

Meanwhile in Rachel's penthouse

The penthouse looms above the 5th avenue as a chrome crown. The heartbeat of this palace pulse breathes with the rhythm of ambient climate control. The smart glass in the penthouse lounge casts the sky in a warm ember hue, mimicking the soft glow of morning light. Eucalyptus mist diffusers, and the faint buzz of a fridge recalibrating its idea of 'fresh'.

The ceiling above becomes alive with the effect of a floor-to-ceiling kinetic lighting system. An artificial aurora borealis dances across the room in sync with Rachel's thoughts, as if the very space responds to her mood.

The Voice sits dead center on the couch, legs tucked beneath her. Her team orbits her as planets around a reluctant sun. They're all trying not to look straight at the screen. For the third time. The flickering light of the TV hologram reflects off their faces.

On TV, Wesley's drawl crackles as a curse. The hotel lobby footage repeats, grainy and high-contrast. Rach's tone, slicing back at him, replayed again and again, it's a song stuck in the universe's algorithm.

"If I don't find what I need at home, I'll look for it somewhere else."

The line hits in a different way when you're eating kettle corn in front of it.

The diva's manager, William Devaney, remains serious. He makes eye contact with PR agent Sy Spector, who finds him concerned. Bill addresses his singing star. "Rach, babe, Of course... Wesley is dropping hints through questions that suggest an answer. Your answer is also ambiguous, so everyone understands what he or she wants to understand. But if you ask me, Wesley is doing it quite king the opportunity to get one over on you and Ivy."

Rach doesn't answer. She's staring. Not at the screen, but into it. Then she drops her face into her hands, desperate, her elbows resting on her knees. She struggles to say, "Singing, just singing, that's all I want. Am I asking too much of the world?"

The report plays, dissecting her every move in the hotel lobby. Wesley's smug remark. Her sharp, unfiltered retort. The breathless reaction from onlookers. Then the host, giddy with speculation, analyzes Nightqueens's supposed romantic history, painting a picture of mystery and secrecy before she was 22 years old. It's not that she doesn't mention a close friendship with Editha. Or emphasizes the sexual orientation of Miss Burrows several times.

The receptionist's hinted remarks in another way. Rachel knows why she was in the Waldorf.

Then the glitching footage...

The moment where Marcus Gallagher should be, but instead, there's an almost spectral presence.

A mystery she can't explain. What does Marcus Gallagher look like? She collided with him and yet she still doesn't know.

That's not what interests her most right now. But the scene in the hotel reminds her of something that concerns her far more than the rumors...

No matter how hard Rachel tried over the past few days, after 13 years, she can't remember what Finnian Devon looked like. Not the details, at least, but his face is a shadow in her memories. She knows what his voice sounds like. She knows he once adjusted her seatbelt with a kind of surgical elegance. But his face? It's gone. Not more as a dream, you didn't know you had.

The media does what it always does. They misunderstand details and create a sensation around them. In doing so, they let the mob lick the pop star's blood. Based on no new information, the media further expands on what was already misunderstood in order to explain the song star's world. The Queen of the Night hates that. These aren't her worlds, and their actual reality is already unbearable enough for her.

Rachel tunes out the collective murmurs of her team. Her fingers tighten around her phone. That distortion unnerves her.

The Queen exhales and speaks without thinking. "Marcus Gallagher, can you hear me?"

A stillness settles in the room. Some of her team exchange confused glances. She hasn't dialed a connection. Hasn't pressed a button.

"You… got a linkcode for this guy?" murmurs her brother Chris.

"No." Rach blinks. "I didn't… He heare if he will."

Rachel's thumb brushes her phone's edge. It's warm. Too warm.

Then it happens.

No notification. No call. No alert.

Just… music.

"Hello…" croons Lionel Richie. "Is it me you're looking for?"

The song slides into the room as a man with too many secrets and a silk shirt buttoned one notch too low.

She stares. The mobile screen doesn't move. No app, open. No running software.

The AI assistant stumbles, its synthetic statement almost hesitant: "Apologies, Rachel. I don't understand your request."

Sy Spector, without missing a beat, says, "You ever get the feeling your handset is trying to date you?"

"My phone got ghosted by a ghost," mutters the singer.

Rachel doesn't laugh. She presses her device closer to her chest as if it might radiate truth. Something between panic and intrigue swirls in her gut. It's not the music. Not the AI. It's the timing.

In the Lego Store across Manhattan, Marcus Gallagher slips deeper into the Death Star. The diorama dims. Ivy is out of sight, at this moment distracted by a replica of Jabba's palace. Inside the orb of light in his hand, he hears her voice one time more—this time a whisper.

"Marcus Gallagher, call if you hear me."

He smiles. He won't call. Not yet.

Let her wonder.

Greg's Insight

The lighting is soft ultraviolet, throwing everything into sharp relief. Droid patrols. Stormtroopers buzz beneath transparent tiles, their LED-lit eyes flickering as some Morse code.

Greg stands in the observation mezzanine with a coffee that smells... How an ambition with chemical vanilla. The cup reads "authentic roast," but he watched it get extruded from a spout in the shape of a miniature Starbucks siren. The foam cap is so symmetrical it looks AI-generated. The sugar calibrates to his resting blood sugar and self-esteem score.

A small child ricochets off his knee, giggling the same way a gremlin on helium does. Then the rascal vanishes behind a display of limited-edition Kyber Crystals. The Brit's coffee sloshes over the rim and drips onto the toe of his boot. He sighs. The boot adapts to moisture. Still annoying.

He glances up.

Marcus Gallagher is still inside the Death Star core exhibit.

The man hasn't moved in five minutes. He's frozen in place. A high-functioning wax figure, surrounded by glowing Sith Lords and miniature Endor trees. To Portman, the stillness looks like sniper training.

The English narrows his orbs. The guy doesn't blink. Don't scroll anything. Doesn't even sip his drink. Who does that in the middle of a retail death sphere?

Before his paranoia forms, Ivy floats in as a jazz riff in a cathedral.

She points a long-nailed finger at Greg. "How do you become a bodyguard in the Brits?"

Portman doesn't even blink. He's still stewing over Marcus. "In my case, I'm a major of the Royal Marines."

Ivy's view widens with interest. "Are they Special Forces?"

The soldier seems surprised by the question, but he's amused. "As an American, you're thinking of the Green Berets?"

She yawns with her eyes. "No. I mean British Special Forces. Are Royal Marines Commandos or not more than good swimmers?"

The Major straightens. That hits somewhere old and tribal. "Special Forces, yes, but not Commandos. You know a bit about it. Rachel Marron?"

Ivy's deadpan. "Her dad's an admiral. She knows her alphabet soup. Do the Brits have nicknames for their Marines, in that way how do we call our Jarheads or Leathernecks?"

The Royal Marines sips his coffee and nods. He's warming to Ivy. "We've got nicknames, too. Royals. Boatnecks. Sometimes Jollies."

"Jollies? As in Jolly Rogers? That's adorable. All you need now is a hook and a crocodile." She glances around, mock-pouting. "Shame Rach's new bodyguard isn't here. Little Ashley thinks he's Peter Pan. We could've staged a whole scene—Lost Boy versus the Jollies. You know I'd pay to see that. Front row, champagne, popcorn—done."

She scanned the area, her eyes dramatic with mock disappointment.

Greg blinked, caught off guard. "The daughter knows him?"

Ivy let out a short laugh, leaning back in her chair. "Knows him? Honey, she's obsessed. Rach's already sharpening her claws. It's... classic."

The Briton's brow furrowed, still trying to piece things together. "So the Queen of the Night knows him too?"

Ivy looked at him as if he'd asked if the sky was blue. "Of course, she knows him. He's her niece's godfather or whatever. One of those fancy French kids."

The major's confusion deepened, his mouth opening and closing as he processed that. "The Thévenets?"

Ivy waved it off, completely unimpressed. "And don't even think about Rach's brothers. Don't even go there."

Portman's brain sputtered, trying to catch up.

Ivy, meanwhile, took a sip of her drink, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You should've seen them at the Waldorf yesterday. Those two got so close I thought I'd walked into a telenovela."

The IK-renegade froze mid-thought, his face morphing from confusion to shock in the span of a heartbeat.

Ivy continued, oblivious to the mental disaster she'd unleashed. "I'm telling you, it was so close. You could've sworn it was a scene from some cheesy romance movie. The tension, the chemistry—who needs a script?"

The Royal Marines, now silent for what felt ages, his mind spinning. His gaze drifted to his glass, then to the table, and back to Ivy. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

After a moment, Greg managed to speak. "Just… don't ever call Rachel Marron Dad skates. Not unless you want to see him combust."

"Why not?"

He hesitated. "It's an Army thing. Something about fish and… creative loneliness."

Ivy wrinkled her nose. "Ew."

He nodded. "I see, you understand!"

Ivy lets out a musical snort. "SAS is 'the Regiment.' I used to think that was the only elite unit you Brits had. Then Rach shows up with her precious SRR. I'd never even heard of them."

The Brit leans in now. This is good intel. "She's into the SRR?"

Ivy nods. "She says they're her favorite. Mysterious. Discreet. Always know what you need before you ask."

Portman's paranoia creaks more than an old door. He swallows. Hard.

Marcus Gallagher isn't the agent who oversees the safeguarding of the interests of the British government. That's crap. He's not some stoic meatwall in the background. An SRR officer living under the media's radar.

Add it up.

An unidentified man erased from the internet video beside the Queen of the Night. The same SRR with the tech to wipe a digital shadow as if it never existed.

Greg's gut locks into place.

This wasn't bodyguard-level closeness. This wasn't protective duty. That wasn't a professional assignment—it's something messier.

Romantic.

"Son of a bitch," The Briton mutters to himself.

He glances at Marcus again. Still staring at Darth Maul as if he owes him money.

"As the daughter of the head of military counterintelligence," The UK officer exhales, "Rachel Marron's dealt with SRR people before."

Ivy nods, chilling. "Of course. She got her own lieutenant colonel from the SRR. And ever since then, she's been acting bananas." Ivy gives him a sweet, sociopathic smile. Then she turns to Greg, looking at him with great seriousness. "Can you introduce me to an SAS officer?"

The English chuckles at this question. "No, I'm sorry. You'd have to ask Miss Marron's officer; he knows a lot of them. They based the SRR in Credenhill, the UK Pentagon, right next to the SAS."

Ivy weighs the words, taking the matter to heart. "Then they must be good if they're allowed to live next to the SAS."

The jollie huffs a laugh, but he's thinking now—hard. Would Marcus Gallagher maintain that glacial act if he heard Ivy?

He looks over at the fake Jasper Rothko and nods in his direction. "What about that one? I had the impression you two got along well."

Ivy nods. "We do, but I'm looking for something else. Jasper doesn't like New York's Womanhood."

Greg dilates his eyes. "A British Commando officer, of all people?"

"I have no connection to the US military," Ivy says. "There's Rach, with her connections to the Britons."

The singer broods, "Rachel's Dad is giving his daughter an SRR officer. He'd assign her friend a SAS officer."

Amusement flickers across Portman's face. "Sure, matchmaking is a British admiral's primary duty."

Penthouse of Rachel

Rachel's grip on the phone tightens. Her knuckles drain pale against the sleek black of the screen. The room forgets how to move. Even the kinetic aurora above—usually a slow, soothing swirl—freezes mid-flow, locked in shades of funeral blue.

She whispers: "Hello?" Her voice is gravel and disbelief.

From the speaker, no static—it's sound. Music. A silk-slippered ghost in the dark. "Hello…" Lionel Richie croons, slow and sweet, a lover at the wrong door.

Rachel swallows. The taste in her mouth is copper and heartbreak.

"Marcus…" She pauses. The name drags up something buried as if it's been sitting underwater for years. "…Gallagher?"

Above her, the aurora fractures. The ceiling, once a wash of frozen funeral blue, splinters into an oil-slick shimmer—teal, gunmetal, violet, gold. It slides across the stars as if someone slashed a gemstone open and let it bleed.

The song mocks her now: "…is it me you're looking for?"

The light hesitates. Then, after a breath held too long, it exhales—restoring the aurora to its slow, measured ripple. Purple returns. Silver stars blink back on, cold and precise.

Bill Devaney stands halfway to his feet, hands braced on the table as if he expects an earthquake. "What the hell was that?" His voice echoes small in the hush. He glances up, then at Rachel, then to the smart panel on the wall as if he's about to call tech support.

Sy Spector squints toward the ceiling and mutters, "Okay, someone better tell me that was a visualizer update. I swear that wasn't in the lighting program."

Michael Marron, who'd been lounging with his feet kicked up on the ottoman, sits upright fast. "You guys saw that too, right? That... swirl thing? Some alien mood ring?"

Chris slouche in the corner near the drink cart, and mumbles, "Room felt as if it caught a shiver."

But Rachel doesn't hear them. Her stare drills into the phone screen. The name still hums in her head as an exposed wire.

The walls seem to narrow. Too tight. As if the room became dressed in plastic, and someone turned off the oxygen. The aurora on the ceiling shifts—one slow ripple—then holds again. It bleeds blue into the purple bruise of memory.

She rises, voice louder now, cutting through the velvet hush as a blade: "Marcus Gallagher, is that you?"

The ceiling stutters. Colors lurch. Deep cobalt splits into streaks of glacial turquoise, fanned with silver-white veins. Lightning, trapped in slow motion.

A faint tremble hums under the couch. The building adjusting to the wind… —or something more.

Chris shifts his weight, eyes narrowing. Michael touches the armrest, frowns. Bill Devaney glares toward the projector console.

Sy raises a hand as if he's surrendering. "Okay, I'm creeped out. Mission accomplished."

But Rachel doesn't move. She stands as a statue in the middle of it all, locked to the phone, her back straight, voice echoing in memory.

The colors hold for a second too long, then seep back. The stars return, a little dimmer. As if even they're unsure if they belong here.

Silence. Then— Another song slips in. No intro, no warning.

"Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you."

Sting's voice glides in, ice water across the spine.

The phone stays in her hands, but her shoulders draw back as if she become touched by something not quite human.

The couch hums beneath her. No movement. Not sound. Something beneath sound. The building is listening too.

Then William Devaney speaks—a blade cutting into fog: "What the hell is going on?"

Rachel lifts the mobile. Her tone is raw iron: "I need to talk to you about Finnian Devon."

Michael flinches as if she's thrown a match into gasoline. He lurches forward. "What Why now?"

Something answers. Not with sound. With light.

The ceiling pulses once, then floods with turquoise—not neon, not electric. It flows, an ocean skin, lit by a distant moon. Fluid, restless, endless.

For a moment, it's beautiful. As when the name summoned a tide.

Then it begins to darken.

The turquoise deepens—muted into something cold. A sea at twilight. Then deeper. Until it's not turquoise at all—almost black, with the ghost of movement trapped beneath it.

Chris straightens. His fingers drum once on the table—then stop. The rhythm dies in the weight of the room.

Sy shifts in his seat. "What the hell are we watching?"

Devaney is still. His eyes are skyward.

The phone answers. Not music. A voice. British. Precise. Cold as cathedral stone. "I'm not at your beck and call, Miss Marron."

The others freeze again. But this time, there's no looking away.

Because the ceiling doesn't return to normal. It holds.

Rachel exhales, slow, trying to anchor herself in a breath. That statement doesn't scare her—it knows her. The shape of it. The silence between syllables. The emotional physics. She recognizes the cadence—not the words, but the precision. Surgical. Familiar.

She murmurs, "I forget what he looked like." As if the pop star confesses to the sofa, not the handset. Her utterance wavers. She grips the device tighter, as though trying to extract memory through pressure.

No one speaks.

She goes on, quiet as the dark: "I remember Dover. The pier. The day he visited my parents with his father and General Astgill. That café by the cliffs. I remember the soup he ordered. The music they played. But not his face."

She closes her eyes.

"When I lose the face, he's no longer in this world."

Her eyes flutter shut. "He loved books. Heavy ones. Stuff no one reads."

A pause.

"I know," the phone interrupts—sharp, clipped. A voice, alive with restrained knowledge. "I met him."

Rachel stiffens. Some part of her cracks wide open.

"Did he ever mention me?"

Another pause. It stretches and stretches.

Then: "Finnian didn't talk much. He kept everything locked away. But... he mentioned a girl next door."

Overhead, the aurora shifts again.

The turquoise dissolves—bleeds into violet, deep and slow, the sky is bruising.

The ceiling fills with stars.

Silvery. Cold. Too bright. Too many.

The night sky in some polar dream. A digital echo of some real memory.

Rachel turns her face from them. A tear climbs her cheek and disappears into her hairline.

"I hope he regretted leaving me once he saw my success."

Marcus doesn't hesitate. "In fact, not. He wished you all the luck in the world."

Overhead, the purple aurora flickers. For a moment, it looks as if it might dissipate—the vivid violet receding, the final shades of dusk. The stars flicker as if they too are uncertain, reluctant to vanish.

Her eyes sharpen.

"Then he did mention me."

"He did it to me, you know that I know your sister. Who else would have believed that he knew Rachel Marron?"

The violet deepens again—more stable now, a steady pulse in the cool air. The stars brighten, sharpen, and their silver glow feels colder, more fixed.

It has stabilized. A haunting, unnatural calm settles over the room.

Purple. Rachel's purple.

And the stars—bright, sharp, distant—linger, watching.

Rachel's voice hardens.

"Then tell me why he gave me a ring and vanished."

The silence this time is heavier. Breathless.

"That was a parting gift, Miss Marron. He was seventeen. You were fifteen. He left the world of boys. You hadn't left childhood."

Rachel stares into space. Here tone sinks into bitterness. "And then he left the world of men." A whisper. "When I tried to get close to him, it was... chasing smoke. All he thought about was escape."

Marcus sighs. "What did you expect him to do?"

She scoffs.

"Anything but run. I always saw him on a surfboard, riding clean around danger as if it wasn't even there."

"You're mythologizing him," Marcus replies. "You know he left for a reason. You've always suspected it."

She collapses into the cushions.

"The first time I talked to him, he was reading Paradise Lost. He was fourteen. I tried reading it too. Couldn't understand a thing."

"I'm familiar with Milton," Marcus says.

Rachel swallows. "You two had a lot to talk about, right?"

Marcus says nothing.

Rachel presses on. "Finnian was eloquent. He read to sound like that."

The moment her words settle into the room, something shifts above them.

The purple that had been hanging there as a ghost softens. Melting into turquoise blue. A shimmering color, the surface of the sea at twilight, cool and shifting. It ripples with the cadence of Finnian's name. Now deepen as it unfolds— diving beneath the waves, where light disappears. The sea turns darker, darker still. The stars dim, losing their silver sparkle, swallowed up by the growing darkness above.

"That sounds right," Marcus says.

She probes deeper.

"Do you know the Ulster Cycle?"

A chuckle from the line. "Let me guess—he told you about Manannán mac Lir. The sea god who vanished. Everyone thought he died. Because he didn't eat the apples of Avalon for too long. But he returned... with a black woman who sang spells. And her magic made him survive."

"He made poetry out of it," Rachel's gaze turns inward. "You should be able to do that, too, after what you said to Ivy in the Waldorf."

Marcus's voice lowers. Measured. "When Manannán left the world of men, a woman stood at the western gate. Her skin was shadow. Her breath, the salt wind. 'You will return,' she said, 'but never as yourself.'"

Michael groans. "Oh for the love of—"

Rachel turns. Her stare could stop time. Michael says nothing else.

Then, from the phone: "If you want to remember... go to Dover. When you come to England."

Rachel tilts her head back. Her chest rises once. Falls.

The aurora flickers—red now. Arterial. The kind that beats. The kind that bleeds.

"Why?" she breathes.

No reply.

Only music. Low and elegiac. Depeche Mode. A song that comes as the dust through cracks: "Here is the house... where it all happens..."

The connection dies.

"Marcus Gallagher?" Rachel whispers into her device. "Can we meet at the Waldorf?"

Everyone in the lounge looks at the projection on the ceiling. It doesn't change and plays the programmed software. Marcus Gallagher doesn't listen to them anymore.

The silence that follows feels engineered. Heavy. As if it knows it's the last word.

Michael shifts, unsettled.

"Rach. This is getting weird. Why now? Because you're going back to England? Or, I have to say, Avalon?"

Rachel doesn't look at him.

"If you don't like it," she says without a flicker of emotion, "you know where the door is."

LEGO-Store, 5th Avenue

"Incredible," Marcus enthuses, rejoining Greg and Ivy. "So bursting with detail."

Ivy turns to him, "Have you been to the UK, Jasper?"

Marcus shrugs, "Once, yes."

The jollie chuckles at him and flicks his head with a dry shake.

Ivy leaned in, "Have you been to Edinburgh?"

"Edin-b-u-r-g?" Marcus intones, "Hmm... Edin-b-u-r-g? No, it doesn't mean anything to me." He turns to Portman, "The Brit must know. Greg, where is Edin-b-u-r-g?"

Ivy doesn't quite understand why the Royal Marine has to laugh before he nods, "I don't know that city."

The real New Yorker is very surprised, "It's a pretty big and famous city in Scotland."

The Royal ponders, "Hmm... I was once in Scotland in a city called 'Edinbrouhhh'..."

A laugh bursts out of Marcus.

The major finishes, "Could it be that you mean that city?"

"No!" Ivy ponders, certain of her answer. Yet, she's unsure, which might cause Greg to burst out laughing.

The boatneck asks her, "What interests you about this Scottish city, of all places?"

Ivy replies, "Heritage, history."

Marcus sneers: "Haggis. Don't forget the haggis."

Ivy: "My family roots... I have ancestors from there."

Marcu raises an eyebrow, "Really? Not quite the typical Highlander. From the looks of you, I'd have guessed Timbuktu. But who doesn't know them, the famous McPygmy clan, who almost challenged the Stewards for the crown?"

Greg remembers his conversation with Ivy. "Jasper, Ivy favorites the SAS."

That's too much of an insult for Marcus: "Run ten miles, jump, then crawl, still can't find a brain at all!"

The jollie smiles, very amused. Meanwhile, Ivy Reed wonders if Hollywood star Jasper Rothko has a dislike for the SAS, but why?

Later, as the morning winds down, Ivy bids them farewell with a polite smile, her heels clicking as she heads toward the door. Marcus watches her leave, his expression unreadable. Portman gives him a sidelong glance, waiting until she's out of earshot before speaking.

The Royal Marine tips his head toward the gallery, where Ivy's name still echoes in the tabloids. "You two got on. Why didn't you ever take your shot?"

Marcus doesn't even blink. "What good is that to me? She thinks she's a jock. I'll never get a Ferrari from her. Best case, a secondhand bagpipe and a lecture on clan tartans."

The boatneck laughs, shaking his head. They exchange a few more words, but the conversation shifts as they step out into the air, leaving Ivy's presence behind them.

Greg Portman studies Marcus Gallagher while searching the internet for Rachel Marron. They're alone now, the noise of the exhibition left behind. Marcus, no longer Jasper Rothko, has retreated into himself—his face covered again, the perfect unreadable mask.

The major is confident of victory: "You're taking this very personally. I've seen you cool with a gun to your chest, but say 'SRR' or 'Rachel Marron' and your hands twitch."

Marcus: "What does Andrew's Pad's Brat have to do with this?"

Greg grins at Marcus, "You two are having an affair!" That's not curiosity. That's courtroom drama. That's "objection, your honor, he's guilty and smug."

Horror rises in Marcus, he stops and turns to the major, "Are you drunk?"

Portman shows him the video on his phone, the encounter between Rachel and the man made of glass. "Tell me that's not you!"

"All right!" Marcus comments. "It's not me!"

The British renegade reacts: "You're lying to me!"

Marcus: "Yes!"

They continue on their way. Greg points out, "That would explain a lot."

Marcus ask him, "Have you ever seen her with a white man? Of course not! What does that tell you?"

The jollie watches him, trying to map the contradictions. He decides to pivot, to keep Marcus from retreating too far. "When do you think we can close the deal?"

Marcus considers. "What about in a month?"

Portman shakes his head, tension creeping back in. "That's too late."

Marcus shrugs. "I have things to do here. Can't say how long it'll take. Can you give me a time frame? Two weeks?"

The Royal Marines, voice firm: "That's still too late. Eleven or twelve days at most."

Marcus rubs his chin, calculating. "I'll see if I can prepare for that."

The major asks further, "You can't get hold of Sonic Reapers?"

Marcus laughs in surprise, "The AMM-117s aren't enough? Now I'm curious, do you want to reconquer the colonies?"

Greg: "We want to prepare."

Marcus, "I have an SRG-92 Sonic Reaper in the States, as a demonstration model. Can I get it for you? I'll have to wait for a chance, but definitely not within two weeks."

The renegade, "L98A1 'Thundershot'?"

Marcus, "Same problem, it's not that easy to get them in large quantities either."

The scaterman, "I was thinking more about the UK."

"Oh," Marcus sounds relaxed. "If Pale Shine gets approved by Parliament, things will be different. At least I can sell you information about the weapons shipments you're stealing. Makes things easier for me."

Greg, "HRX-5 'Godhammer'? They're small, can you bring them here?"

Marcus laughs, "I brought mine in my diplomatic bag. I'm carrying them right now, but I don't want to show them off in public here."

Portman, "Are these pistols as good as they say?"

Marcus nods, "If you miss, it's the shooter's fault, not the weapon. Even the pistols are suitable as sniper weapons if it weren't for the sighting issue. The ones who have the technology to use the 'Godhammer' for long-range precession attacks are Section 13. And no, I can't sell you the scope. It's tied to the shooter and can't be used by anyone else."

The major studies him, then lowers his voice. "Why are you doing this? Why is the military tribune of London selling these weapons to the Scattermen?"

Marcus tilts his head, then laughs—a short, sharp sound. "What kind of stupid question is that? Because of the money, of course."

Portman lets the answer sit, then smirks. "Given that motive, I understand that with Rachel Marron…"

"Stop discussing my life. It's annoying." Marcus cuts him off, his patience snaps. "I'm not a ponce."

Greg sighs, raising a hand in surrender. "All right. Let's leave it at that—"

Penthouse of Rachel Marron

The elevator doors slide open on the Consul's level. A hush settles. The guard stationed outside startles at the unexpected visitor.

Editha stands there, rigid, as if second-guessing her decision to be here. Her hands tighten around her purse. A flicker of uncertainty passes over her face, but she steps forward.

Ashley leans forward from behind her, peeking past Edi into the corridor. Her wide eyes scan left, then right, brimming with expectation. A beat passes. Nothing.

Her expression dims. Disappointment creeps in, shifting her shoulders downward. Without a word, she steps back, presses a button.

The elevator doors close again.

The Consul's guards glance at one another, their rigid stance buckles. "What the hell was that?"

As Ash rushes into the lodge to greet her mother, her eyes fall on her uncles Chris and Michael. The little girl stops dead and grins at Editha. "Kunta and Kinte are back."

Rachel's brothers glare at each other, and Chris asks his niece, "Is Eddie teaching you that?"

Miss Burrows fires off a response, "No, her big brother says so."

Rachel hugs Ashley as she says, "Eddie, are you trying to call my parents?"

Before the personal assistant can get there, Michael answers, "Mom and Pa are in the Scilly Islands."

Miss Burrows tilts her head at him, "And there's no internet there?"

"I wasn't saying that," Michael replies. "They arrived today, so don't be surprised if you can't reach them. They're prepping for dinner at their luxury resort right now. They're staying in the owner's pagoda."

"In a pagoda?" Rachel marvels, amused.

"Yes, it's a luxury hotel on a private island. Glamping, but also luxury tree houses. Bungalows or luxury houses in various architectural styles."

"Is Nicki paying for that?" Editha wonders.

"No." Michael hesitates. "Mom and Pa have permission to go there whenever they want, they even have the security code to get into the house. The owner is someone who does business with Nicki. When he comes to Dover, he stays with Mom and Dad; they gave him your old room."

Rachel sits up, "Excuse me?"

Michael grins, "Did you want it back? Or should Mom and Dad turn it into a museum for you?"

Rachel, however, says, "I find the whole situation absurd. A person, with a private island, gives our parents the right to live there in exchange for a room in Dover? Who does that?"

"I don't know!" Michael replies. "But apparently he lives in a Westminster townhouse most of the time."

Rachel's mind races, her eyes darting from left to right and back.

Miss Burrows spews venom, "Maybe he didn't have a little sister with money and had to figure things out on his own."

Chris and Michael look at her. Michael turns to Rachel, "Do you allow her to speak to your flesh and blood like that?"

But Rachel continues to react as if she were numb.

Sy laughs and claps, "Now they're asking your little sister to protect her."

Michael looks back and forth between Sy and Editha: "I can do things with you if you want."

Ashley looks frightened and reaches for her mommy's friend's hand.

Rachel sees this and rages, "Stop it! Stop it!" Then she kneels in front of her daughter and grabs her little arms. "Mommy promises you that things will change. But Mommy doesn't know what to do yet. I want to talk to your grandparents and get advice."

But Ashley doesn't respond to her mother; she looks up at Editha. "Can we go again? I don't want to be here."

The pop star startles.

Rachel's personal assistant tries to maneuver, "Rach, there's a LEGO exhibit where Ash wanted to go. Can we go?"

The diva takes a deep breath and turns to her brothers. "Would one of you like to accompany your niece?"

Chris and Michael groan. "We're not kindergarten teachers!" Chris complains.

Rachel notices how much it hurts her daughter. And yes, Ashley feels the enemy at home. Rachel turns away from her brothers. Turning to Editha and Ash, "Have fun then, you may meet Ivy there."

Edi doesn't linger in the penthouse. She drops Ashley off and heads out, her mind already on the errands waiting for her. But fate, or something else, has other plans.

As soon as Miss Burrows disappears from sight, Rachel turns to her brothers, ice cold. "Don't become surprised if Ash calls you both Kunta and Kinte. If she doesn't find what she's looking for at home, she'll look for it somewhere else. Perhaps on the British Consul's floor."