The loft was exactly what she had asked for: minimalist, cold, defensible.
Located in the arts district, it had exposed brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city she intended to conquer. There was no clutter. No personal items. Just the essentials for war.
Ivy dropped her keys on the kitchen island and walked to the window. She pressed her hand against the glass.
The city lights blurred.
Suddenly, she wasn't in a luxury loft. She was back in that clinic in the foreign country, three years ago.
The smell of antiseptic. The harsh fluorescent lights humming overhead. The pain in her body was a dull, throbbing ache, but the pain in her heart was a gaping wound.
A doctor, his face obscured by a surgical mask, shaking his head. "Boy is strong," he said in broken English. "But girl... too small. Lungs not work. She is gone."
Ivy screaming. Begging to see her. The doctor holding up a polaroid photo-a blurry image of a tiny, blue-skinned infant. "Best you not see. We take care."
The whole place had felt wrong, temporary, as if it could be packed up and vanish overnight. The doctor's eyes, above his mask, had been cold, evasive, refusing to meet hers for more than a second. The emptiness in her arms where her daughter should have been.
"Mommy?"
The voice pulled her back. Ivy gasped, blinking rapidly. The clinic vanished. The loft returned.
She turned around. Albion was sitting on the floor, surrounded by disassembled components of the Wi-Fi router.
"The encryption was standard WPA2," Albion said, frowning at a circuit board. "Embarrassing. I'm upgrading it to a protocol I found online. We can't have anyone tracking our location."
Ivy let out a shaky breath and smiled. She walked over and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, my little genius."
Felix was spreading photos across the kitchen island. He looked at her with concern.
"You went away again," he said quietly.
"I'm fine," Ivy lied. She picked up a script from the table. The Red Palace.
"Target one: The Audition," Felix said, tapping the script. "It's fully funded by the Randall Group. Braeden is the executive producer. Calla is rumored to be consulting on casting."
"Of course she is," Ivy muttered. "She loves playing God."
"The lead role is the villainess," Felix continued. "Empress Wei. She's manipulative, cruel, and seductive. It's ironic."
"It's perfect," Ivy corrected. She picked up a dart from a bowl on the counter.
On the far wall, Felix had taped up photos of their targets. Braeden. Calla. Brittny.
Ivy weighed the dart in her hand. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on Braeden's smiling face.
Thwack.
The dart buried itself right between Braeden's eyes.
"Bullseye," Albion said without looking up from his router.
"I'm counting on it," Ivy said.
"There's something else," Felix said, checking his phone. "Braeden is hosting a charity gala tonight at 'La Rive'. It's a high-security event. The elite of Cloud City will be there."
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Tonight?"
"It's risky, Ivy," Felix warned. "If you go, you're showing your face before the audition. Before we're ready."
"I need to see him," Ivy said. Her voice was hard. "I need to see him when he's not expecting it. I need to smell his fear."
She walked to the closet where her new wardrobe hung-rows of silk and velvet, armor for the modern battlefield.
"I'm not Ivy the victim anymore, Felix," she said, pulling out a garment bag. "I'm Ivy the actress. And tonight is just a dress rehearsal."
Albion looked up, holding a screwdriver. He pointed at Calla's photo on the wall.
"Is that the witch?" he asked.
Ivy's expression softened, but her eyes remained deadly.
"Yes, baby," she whispered. "That's the witch."
