The construction site looked like it had been personally designed by God to mock Sierra's entire existence.

Abandoned cranes loomed like judgmental skeletons. Half-built concrete shells gaped empty under floodlights.

Gravel crunched underfoot with the smug satisfaction of a surface that knew it was ruining four-hundred-dollar heels. And not a single drop of blood, not one shredded designer shirt scrap, not even a dramatically discarded sneaker to justify the four-hour emotional apocalypse she'd just endured.

Nothing.

Just the weekend quiet of a place where dreams of state-of-the-art facilities went to die, and apparently so did her sanity.

Sierra stood in the middle of it all, mascara carving black war-paint streaks down her cheeks—waterproof, her ass—feeling the hysterical laughter bubbling up like bile.

She had pictured Phei in a dozen different flavors of horrific death: skull caved in, throat slit, body dumped in a cement mixer for the ultimate ironic Legacy kill. She'd rehearsed eulogies in the car in tears.

She'd already mentally drafted the scathing social media post calling out every Legacy family by name.

And the universe had responded with: lol, psych.

"Ma'am, sector seven clear. No signs of disturbance. Moving to perimeter sweep."

Sierra's eye twitched so hard she was pretty sure it filed for emancipation.

Because yes, that was still happening...

Around her, Maya's private apocalypse-response team operated like a well-oiled doomsday clock. Five matte-black vans that probably cost more than most people's houses. Thirty-plus men in bespoke suits dark enough to qualify as black holes. Earpieces. Throat mics. Hand signals that silently screamed they were either CIA agents, or former agents.

They moved in perfect synchronization, sweeping the site like they were looking for bin Laden instead of one (1) missing cocky boy.

They treated Maya like royalty and oncoming Armageddon had a love child.

Sierra had texted the girl expecting, at best, a frantic duet of "where is he omg" panic. Maybe some joint crying in designer activewear.

Instead, Maya had rolled up in twenty minutes flat with what looked like a Fortune 500 company's hostile-takeover division.

Who the hell are you, and what did you do with the girl who once set off the fire alarm trying to bake cookies?

"Thermal imaging negative, eastern quadrant," one of the walking voids reported, handing Maya a tablet glowing with incomprehensible heat maps. "No biological signatures. No recent activity trails."

Maya didn't even blink. "Expand radius. Half-mile. Check drainage, utility tunnels, any subsurface access. I want every inch."

"Yes, ma'am." The man actually dipped his head—dipped it—before vanishing into the dark like a particularly obedient shadow.

Sierra's brain blue-screened. Hysterical giggles and a primal scream were arm-wrestling in her throat.

"OKAY BUT IS IT JUST ME—" Maddie's voice detonated across the site like a glitter bomb in a war zone.

She came skipping—actually skipping—through the gravel in neon Lululemon, clutching a venti whatever-the-hell like this was a fun midnight field trip. She'd arrived forty-five minutes ago, taken one look at the tactical circus, declared "this is the best night ever," and had since alternated between genuine worry and live-tweeting the vibe in her head.

"—or does Maya look like she could be, like, the president's secret daughter right now and looks like she's about to declare martial law and install herself as supreme overlord? And these guys are definitely her Secret Service. Or CIA. Or the Men in Black."

Maddie flailed dramatically at the operation.

"Because I'm getting strong 'secret heir to a crime syndicate' energy. Do you think she has a kill list? I want to be on it if it means I get neuralyzed after this. Seriously, erase my memory of Sierra dragging me out of my wine-and-face-mask ritual for a fake kidnapping. I was one sheet mask away from enlightenment, babe."

She cackled. Loud. Unhinged. Like the universe itself was in on the joke.

Sierra turned slowly, four hours of raw terror crystallizing into a single, beautiful fantasy of homicide.

"Maddie."

"Yeah, babe?"

"I'm going to murder you. Slowly. With these heels. And then I'll dump your body in one of those excavators, so the Legacies get blamed for it. Win-win."

"You can't kill me, I'm your designated driver." Maddie slurped her Starbucks with the serene confidence of someone who'd already accepted death and found it underwhelming.

"Also, back to the real talk—who is Silver Hair over there? Because at school she's giving 'walking anxiety attack who apologizes to furniture,' and now she's commanding a small paramilitary force like it's Tuesday. The cognitive dissonance is going to give me an aneurysm. I need answers and possibly therapy."

Sierra had no answers.

Mostly because her own brain was stuck on repeat: This is what dying of embarrassment feels like.

Maya stood at the eye of the storm like she'd been carved from it—spine straight, silver hair catching the floodlights like a halo forged from razor wire. Gone was the chaotic gremlin who rambled sentences into oblivion.

In her place was someone who spoke and the world rearranged itself to obey.

It was terrifying.

It was unfair.

It is, and Sierra hated to admit in the privacy of her spiraling mind, kind of stupidly hot.

Which was just the emotional whiplash cherry on top of this dumpster-fire sundae.

"We've checked everyone," Sierra said, voice brittle enough to cut glass. "Brett's home—Amber says he's been glued to his gaming setup all night, yelling at twelve-year-olds on headset. Danton's home. Kyle, Anderson, Derek, Aiden, Zack—all tucked in like good little sociopaths. Alibis tighter than their trust funds."

"Which makes exactly ZERO sense," Maddie chimed in, swirling her Starbucks like it was a fine wine. "Because Brett one-hundred-percent lured Phei here with that sketchy texts. So either Brett has an evil twin—and honestly, that would explain his personality—or someone's straight-up lying, or—"

"Or something else is going on that we don't understand yet."

"I was gonna say 'or Phei's just pranking us all for clout,' but sure, go with the dramatic conspiracy angle. It suits your mascara streaks."

Sierra's phone buzzed. She lunged for it like it was a live grenade that might save her life.

Just the Academy Belles group chat.

She seriously considered yeeting the phone into the nearest foundation pit and letting concrete do what evolution wouldn't.

"You know what though?" Maddie had drifted over to one of the black vans, nose practically pressed to the tinted glass like a kid at an aquarium. "If I didn't already know you can rent these exact guys for, like, five grand. Maybe four if you haggle and mention it's for a sweet-sixteen rerun... I was completely buying the whole 'Maya is secret mafia princess' or 'President's hidden daughter' bit. Like, more powerful than the Legacies, hiding in plain sight, parents definitely own a private island and a small dictatorship."

She spun back with a shit-eating grin.

"Dad used them for his birthday—great at keeping the cokeheads out of the champagne tent."

Sierra stared.

The homicide urge upgraded from fantasy to five-year plan.

"What?" Maddie shrugged, innocent as a serial killer in court. "I'm just saying it's not that deep! I could've whipped up this little militia too! I was just busy being emotionally terrorized by your 911 text while I had a clay mask cracking on my face like the San Andreas fault—"

"I'm walking away now."

"Wait—Sierra—babe—"

Sierra was already stalking off, heels stabbing the concrete like she was auditioning for a slasher flick.

"SIERRA! I WAS JUST BEING HONEST! THEY'RE EASY TO RENT! WHY ARE YOU MAD AT ME FOR BEING HONEST—"

Sierra whirled.

"You want honest?" Her voice cracked like a whip. "Maya—who barely knows Phei and barely 20% money of what we have, who owed us exactly nothing, who I messaged on a desperate whim—managed to mobilize a literal private army in minutes. While we sat on our asses calling Amber for emotional support."

She stabbed a finger at Maddie.

"And you—you—have the nerve to stand there slurping your oat-milk whatever, cracking jokes, diminishing the one person who actually showed up ready to storm a castle for him?"

Maddie's mouth opened.

Closed.

"We have more money than most small nations, Maddie. Our families could buy this entire site, pave it with gold, and still have change for a yacht. And what did we do? What useful, productive thing did we contribute tonight?"

Maddie blinked. "...moral support?"

"YOU BROUGHT A FUCKING LATTE!"

"It's oat milk! Sustainable!"

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!"

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