A Grave Price
Cynthia swiped the notification away before Caleb could see the screen.
Her fingers trembled, but she masked it with a casual yawn, stretching her arm over her head like she was still blissed out from the high of their shared fury. She slipped the phone under the pillow.
Caleb was watching her, shirt back on, collar halfway buttoned. She could see the wall rising in him again, like he regretted giving her any part of himself. His expression hardened, his voice neutral.
“I’ll be working late,” he said.
“Of course you will,” she muttered.
He paused, but didn’t respond. No apology. No softness. The warmth they’d shared minutes ago had cooled into something brittle. He walked out of the room without another word, and the sound of the elevator doors closing echoed like a slap.
Cynthia sat still for a long time, trying to breathe.
Then she grabbed the phone again and opened the video—again.
It was her face. Her voice. Her movements.
But it wasn’t her.
It was so real it made her stomach twist.
AI. Deepfake. Manipulated.
But anyone who saw it wouldn’t care. They’d believe what they wanted to believe. She had no doubt Marcus planned to leak it. It was only a matter of time.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Then she called Sienna.
Her best friend answered on the third ring. “Cyn?”
“I need your help.”
“You sound... weird. What happened?”
Cynthia swallowed. “I think I’m being blackmailed.”
“What?”
“There’s a video. A fake one. But it looks real. Marcus sent it. I need to know if it can be traced, taken down, anything.”
“Send it to me. Now.”
“Promise you won’t show anyone.”
“I wouldn’t even show it to myself if I didn’t have to. Just send it.”
Cynthia forwarded the clip with shaking hands. Her pulse didn’t slow until the message disappeared from her screen.
She stared at the wall, jaw clenched.
This was never supposed to be her life.
---
Later that day, she stood at the window, staring out at the city that had become her prison. A news alert pinged on her phone—another update about Harlow Industries being auctioned off to settle debts. Her family name was unraveling thread by thread.
Her decision was already made.
She turned when she heard the elevator open again.
Caleb stepped in, phone in hand, expression as unreadable as ever.
“I want to visit my father,” she said without preamble.
“No.”
“He’s my father, Caleb.”
“And he’s in federal custody.”
“I don’t care. I need to see him.”
“No.”
Her hands clenched. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
“I want you to remember that every choice has consequences,” he said calmly. “He made his. Now we live with them.”
She stepped forward. “He’s still a human being. He needs his medication, he—”
“Is being cared for by federal agents. He’s not in a basement.”
“Please.” Her voice cracked. “Just let me go. I’ll go alone. No press, no attention—”
“You walk into that facility, and every camera within five blocks will track you. He won’t be the headline. You will. And so will I.”
She stared at him, stunned. “You’re worried about the headlines?”
He didn’t answer.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
He turned away, but not fast enough for her to miss the flicker of something in his eyes.
Regret? Or just the ghost of a soul?
It didn’t matter.
The TV behind them switched from a finance broadcast to Breaking News.
“We interrupt this program with a live update from the Metropolitan Detention Center—former Harlow Industries chairman Richard Harlow has reportedly suffered a cardiac event during a private medical evaluation. Our sources confirm he lost consciousness moments before boarding an armored transport and—”
Cynthia didn’t hear the rest.
She was already running for the elevator.
---
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and grief.
Cynthia burst through the ER entrance, pushing past security, her voice shaking as she demanded to know where her father was. She was finally escorted into a quiet corridor, then into a sterile room filled with the sounds of beeping monitors and hushed tones.
Too late.
Her father’s body lay still beneath a white sheet.
She collapsed.
No one stopped her sobs as she fell to her knees, one hand gripping the edge of the hospital bed like it could anchor her to what had already slipped away.
“I begged him,” she whispered, voice raw. “I begged him to let me come.”
No one answered.
There was no one left to blame.
Only her.
---
Liliana arrived thirty minutes later, heels clicking softly against the hospital floor.
She didn’t smile this time. But her face was calm. Collected. Controlled.
Cynthia didn’t look up when she sat beside her on the bench outside the room.
“I’m sorry,” Liliana said, not unkindly.
Cynthia nodded, eyes red.
“My father was a criminal,” she murmured. “But he was mine.”
Liliana placed a folded tissue in her hand. “Grief doesn’t care about the truth. It just burns.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Liliana shifted, “You deserve better than this, you know.”
Cynthia gave a hollow laugh. “You mean Caleb?”
Liliana replied, “I mean all of it. Being a footnote in a war between men. You lost your company. Your father. Your name. And what do you have left? A husband who lies. A house you hate. And a future that doesn’t belong to you.”
Cynthia closed her eyes. “I don’t want to play games.”
“It’s not a game. It’s survival.” Liliana turned toward her, “You help me secure Dylan’s rights. I’ll help you get your life back. We’ll force Caleb to divide his empire, piece by piece. Make sure you never need a man’s last name to matter again.”
Cynthia didn’t answer right away. Then she nodded.
“Good,” Liliana said, standing.
But as she walked away, a small smile crept across her lips. She didn’t care about Dylan’s future. She cared about reclaiming her ex-husband and crushing anyone who got in the way.
Including the broken woman (Cynthia) who had just lost her father.
