Channel froze. "Oh my God... what...?"
Her friends gasped.
Leon rushed forward with his hands up. "I'm so, so sorry! It... it slipped! I was trying to get rid of it... this gum is crazy sticky." He reached for Channel's hair. "Hang on, I'll get it off."
He tugged gently, making a dramatic fuss.
"It's really not a big deal," he told the girls, waving his hands like he was trying to calm a fire. "All we have to do is pluck the hair...simple and painless, I promise!"
Before Channel could protest, Leon gripped the gum and yanked.
"Ow...!" Channel gasped, hand flying to the back of her head.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Leon repeated loudly.
One of Charlotte's security men stepped over quickly. "Miss Holland? Your mother is waiting by the car."
Channel sighed, embarrassed. "Okay, I'm coming."
She turned to Leon. "Next time... just be careful where you throw your gum, okay?"
Leon nodded fast. "Yes... yes, of course. I'm really sorry."
He watched her walk away with her friends, heading toward the parking lot, the security man guiding her. As she got further, Leon slipped the plucked hair still tangled in the gum into a tiny plastic packet.
He grinned.
"That's it," he whispered to himself. "I did my part. Maverick's gonna be happy."
Channel reached her mother's black car and climbed in. Charlotte leaned closer, worried.
"What happened? You look upset."
Channel let out a tired laugh. "Some crazy dude spat gum in my hair."
Charlotte's eyes widened. "Spat? On you?"
"I think it was an accident," Channel said. "It's okay, Mom."
The driver looked back. "Are we ready, ma'am?"
Charlotte kept her eyes on Channel a moment longer, then nodded. "Yes. Take us home."
The car pulled away from the university, leaving the noisy crowd behind.
Maverick's apartment on Gamma Avenue looked exactly like the home of a crime boss. It was a mansion built with dark walls, windows with heavy curtains. There was a glass table covered with files, guns, and old whiskey bottles. A long leather couch sat in front of a giant TV that played muted news, flashing colored lights over the room. The air smelled like cigar smoke and expensive cologne.
Maverick sat on the couch, leaning forward, rolling a silver coin between his fingers. He wasn't watching the TV, and his mind was far ahead.
There was a knock on the door, and Maverick raised his eyes. "Come in."
The door opened, and Dallas stepped inside. He shut the door behind him gently, out of respect and fear.
"Boss," Dallas said, breathing a little fast. "Leon did it. He got the girl's hair."
Maverick straightened immediately. His eyes lit up with excitement. "Show me."
Dallas reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small sealed plastic packet. Inside it was one long, brown strand of hair with the root still attached.
He handed it over with both hands.
Maverick took the packet like it was gold. "Good," he whispered with a slow smile. "Very good."
Dallas stepped back. "Anything else, boss?"
Maverick waved a hand. "No. Go. And make sure no one talks about this."
"Yes, boss." Dallas nodded quickly and turned for the door.
When he left, Maverick let out a low breath, staring at the hair. His smile grew wider.
"Soon," he murmured, "I'll know the truth about you, Channel Holland."
He set the hair packet carefully beside him, then reached for his phone. He scrolled to a name he rarely used; Dr. Michael Jones. The man had been loyal to the Cruz family since Damian Cruz ran the streets.
Maverick pressed call.
After one ring, the doctor answered. "Yes, Maverick?"
"Come to my apartment. Now," Maverick said with no explanation.
Dr. Michael didn't ask questions. "I'm on my way."
The call ended.
Minutes later, another knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Maverick said, still sitting on the couch.
Dr. Michael walked in wearing a neat suit and carrying a black medical bag. He pushed his glasses up as he looked around quickly.
"Maverick," he greeted.
"Doctor." Maverick stood, handed him the packet with Channel's hair. "Run a DNA test. I want to know if her DNA matches mine."
Dr. Michael nodded, opening his bag. "I will need something from you as well to compare the results."
Maverick didn't hesitate. He reached up, grabbed a small bunch of his own hair, and yanked it out.
"Ow... damn," he muttered.
He handed it to the doctor.
Dr. Michael sealed it in another packet. "The results will be ready in two days."
Maverick's head snapped toward him. "Two days? That long?"
The doctor held up his hands calmly. "If you want real results, Maverick, it must take time. If I rush it, it won't be accurate."
Maverick clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fine. Do it right."
He stepped back. "Go. And make sure the results come to only me."
Dr. Michael nodded. "Understood." Then he turned and left the apartment quietly.
When the door shut, Maverick grabbed his phone again. This time, he called Julian.
Julian answered quickly. The music and crowd noise of the Seven Skies Club played behind him. "Maverick?"
"You can relax," Maverick said, sinking back into his couch. "Channel Holland has been taken care of."
Julian let out a deep breath, clearly relieved. "So she's not coming here tonight?"
"No. Move on with your night."
"Got it."
The last words exchanged were simple.
"Stay sharp," Maverick said.
"Always," Julian replied.
The call ended.
And Maverick leaned back in the dim light with his eyes half-closed.
Two days. Then he would know everything.
Julian leaned back in his chair at Seven Skies with the glass of whiskey in his hand. It was neat, burning quietly down his throat. For a moment, the loud music of the club faded from his mind and a memory crept in.
He saw himself at nine years old, small and wide-eyed, standing beside his father, Weston Styles. Weston's hand had rested on Julian's shoulder as they walked into Damian Cruz's estate. Damian had been alive then, and he was terrifying to most people... but not to Julian. Because on that day, Maverick had been standing beside his father too.
Maverick was twelve, taller, already carrying that confidence of someone who knew he would run the world one day. Julian remembered the way Maverick had looked at him, then suddenly grinned, grabbing a wooden sword off the table.
"You ever fought a pirate?" young Maverick had asked.
Julian had shaken his head. Then they had run off together, yelling, swinging wooden swords around the yard until sunset.
From then on, Julian had followed Maverick like a shadow. Maverick was everything Julian wanted to be; bold, strong, and impossible to scare. Even when Damian died in the car crash, and Maverick stood stiff and broken at the funeral, Julian had stayed right beside him.
And later, when Julian told Maverick he wanted to build a music studio... Startrek Studios... Maverick didn't laugh. He didn't say it was childish. He funded it. He pushed Julian to grow it. He told him he could be more than what Weston wanted him to be.
Back in the club, Julian sighed. The memory washed away as he stared at the face of his expensive wristwatch. It was a limited-edition Vanguard Eclipse; deep black with a thin silver halo around the frame. Maverick had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday a few years ago.
The second hand moved too fast.
"Time's running," Julian muttered under his breath. "And I'm still stuck under someone else."
He was tired... tired of directions, tired of orders. First his father... then Maverick. They both treated him like a boy who needed instructions. They never asked what he wanted. They just told him.
His phone buzzed on the counter. He didn't even need to look. He knew the tone... it was his father.
Julian swallowed hard before he opened the message.
Weston:
Handle the shipment at Blue Harbor tonight. Don't let Cruz take the lead. Make sure you're the one in charge.
Julian stared at the screen. He had expected this. Weston always reached out when he needed something. Never to ask how Julian was doing. Never to check in. Only commands.
Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose, shoulders dropping with frustration.
He typed back:
Julian:
I'll take care of it.
He sent it, placed the phone down, and exhaled slowly.
"I'm so tired of this," he whispered to himself, eyes sinking back into the golden liquid in his glass. He took another slow drink, feeling the burn melt into something like numbness.
And he wondered:
How much longer until I stop living in their shadow?
Meanwhile...
Ava Adams sat on the edge of the bed with her legs tucked under the blanket. Ian lay beside her, eyes half-open, watching her. Ava held a small paperback romantic novel in her hands. She cleared her throat softly and continued reading aloud.
"He touched her hand like it was something breakable... something he had waited his whole life to hold," Ava read gently. "And when she looked up, suddenly the whole world melted around them."
Ian's lips twitched, he tried to smile. His fingers moved slightly, as if trying to show he was listening.
Ava noticed and laughed under her breath.
"You like this part, huh?" she teased him, touching his arm. "See? I told you this book is sweet."
She kept reading with a low voice.
"He whispered her name like a promise... a promise that he would never leave, not even when the sky turned dark."
Ian blinked slowly, the closest thing he had to a nod.
When the chapter ended, Ava closed the book and placed it on the nightstand.
"That's enough romance for tonight," she told him. "I'll read more tomorrow."
She leaned down, kissed his forehead, then his cheek.
"Goodnight, my love."
She turned off the bedside lamp and curled up beside him.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning, and the sunlight slipped through the curtains, brushing lightly across the bed. Ava stretched and quickly rolled over to Ian. First thing every morning she had to check him.
Her eyes widened as she saw Ian's right hand; the one that had barely moved since the stroke twitched again. Stronger this time. His fingers bent slowly, and his eye followed her movement a bit more clearly.
"Oh my gosh... Ian," she whispered, covering her mouth. "Baby, look at you."
Her voice shook with happiness.
"That's... that's real progress. I knew you were fighting. I knew it."
She touched his cheek, tears forming in her eyes, but she laughed through them.
"You're getting better, Adam. I can see it. I can feel it."
She brushed his hair back and kept talking softly, as if her words alone could bring him back to health.
"Clara invited me today... to that singing audition at Seven Skies HQ," she said with a breathy laugh. "Guest judge, imagine that. But I'm not going. I'm staying right here with you."
Ian stared at her, wishing he could say something.
