The storm didn't come with thunder.
It came with silence.
And a letter.
Delivered by hand.
No return address. No markings. Just one name, etched in ink across the front in slanted handwriting:
> Amelia.
James took it before I could touch it, holding it up to the light, scanning it for traces of toxins or trackers. His jaw tightened.
"It's clean," he said at last.
I unfolded it slowly, heart pounding.
Inside was a short message:
> One last truth. One final choice.
Come alone.
Waverly Theatre. Midnight.
Or James dies.
My hands trembled.
"No…" I breathed. "No, this can't be real—"
But James had already pulled out his phone.
The security feed from our west compound flickered.
Offline.
The guards stationed there?
Unreachable.
"I told them to stay alert," James muttered, pacing. "No one gets past our network that easily. Unless…"
"Unless someone already inside let him in," I whispered.
Sophia stood at the edge of the room, her lips pressed tight.
"I know Waverly," she said. "It used to be a political theatre. Closed down years ago after a scandal. Deep cellars. No surveillance."
"Perfect for a trap," James said grimly.
I gripped the letter. "But I can't ignore it. If he has someone—anyone—we can't risk it."
"You're not going alone," James snapped.
"Yes, I am."
"Over my dead body."
I turned to him, voice steady. "That's exactly what he's counting on. He's watching us. Listening. If you show up, he'll kill whoever he has."
James clenched his fists.
Sophia stepped forward. "He wants you to be afraid, Amelia. You walk into that theatre, you walk into his power."
"I'm not afraid," I whispered. "Not anymore."
---
At 11:53 p.m., I stepped out of the car two blocks away from the abandoned Waverly Theatre.
No guards.
No backup.
Just me.
And a dagger tucked in my boot, gifted by Sophia — old, but sharp.
The night air wrapped around me like fog, the streetlights flickering above the crumbling brick structure ahead.
The door was ajar.
I pushed it open.
The once-grand hall was cloaked in dust and darkness, red velvet curtains shredded by time.
Then I heard it.
> Clink. Click. Footsteps.
I stepped onto the main stage — and there, under the single spotlight, stood Johnathan Windsor.
Gray suit. Pale smile. A ghost in a king's throne.
And behind him?
> James.
Tied to a chair. Blood on his lip. Breathing — but barely.
"Hello, Amelia," Johnathan said calmly. "Or should I say, the lioness of London now?"
I ignored him and looked at James. "Are you okay?"
He nodded weakly. "Didn't talk. I promise."
Johnathan chuckled. "Loyalty. How romantic. How... inconvenient."
"What do you want?" I snapped.
"Closure," he said, circling slowly. "You took my empire. My name. My secrets. But you forgot one thing…"
He stopped.
"I built this world on fear. And fear always returns."
Then he pulled out a pistol — sleek, black, deadly — and pointed it at James's chest.
"You can walk away now, Amelia," he said. "No police. No revenge. No blood. Just leave."
"Or?"
"Or I shoot him. And bury you in grief — the same way I buried your mother once."
My blood boiled.
I didn't hesitate.
With one swift motion, I launched the dagger at his hand.
It struck true — slicing the gun from his grip.
James kicked his chair back, just enough to unbalance Johnathan's footing.
I ran.
Tackled him.
We hit the stage hard, fists flying, rage pounding through every strike.
"You destroyed families!" I screamed. "You built empires from ashes!"
"You should've stayed dead!" he roared.
But I didn't stop — not until James pulled me off, breathless.
Johnathan lay bleeding, hand trembling — but alive.
"I'm not going to kill you," I said, standing tall. "You don't deserve that kind of ending."
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Lights flickered as MI6 stormed the theatre.
Johnathan Windsor was officially under arrest.