Vanessa tore Mia’s princess dress in front of the whole school.

The private hospital wing of the Hôpital Cantonal de Genève was guarded around the clock by two shifts of Swiss Federal Police and four American Marshals. The diplomatic firestorm was already raging in the international press: headlines from the *New York Times*, *Le Figaro*, and *The Guardian* screamed about the downfall of the Sinclair dynasty, the illegal genetic farms, and the high school scandal that had unraveled an empire.

I stood on the stone balcony of the fourth-floor corridor, watching the first light of dawn paint the snow-capped peak of Mont Blanc in shades of violent rose and gold.

Hayes walked up behind me, moving slowly with the aid of an aluminum cane, a cup of dark hospital espresso in his hand.

"She won't see the outside of a federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, for the rest of her natural life," Hayes said, leaning against the stone balustrade. "The Swiss agreed to extradite her. Julian Vance’s files were a goldmine, Clara. Every judge she bribed, every doctor who falsified birth records, every shell company she used to bankroll the bullying campaign—it’s all on the record."

"And the girl?" I asked quietly, looking toward the glass doors of room 412.

"Genevieve is responding to the synthetic immunosuppressants," Hayes said, his voice softening. "She doesn't need an organ transplant. The whole 'total organ failure' story was a lie fabricated by Vanessa's private doctors to justify the harvest. Vanessa didn't want Genevieve to survive long-term either. She wanted to harvest Mia, save Genevieve for a year or two until the Sinclair board fully transferred the trust, and then liquidate Genevieve as well. Vanessa was never going to share power with anyone."

I looked through the window into room 412.

Mia was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a clean, simple white sweater. Genevieve was propped up against the pillows, her cheeks finally showing a faint hint of natural color. On the table between them sat two identical high school yearbooks, sent via express courier from Pennsylvania by the few teachers who had dared to testify against Julian Vance.

Mia was pointing at a photograph of the school gymnasium, laughing quietly as she explained something to her sister. For the first time since I had taken this assignment—since the day Vanessa tore Mia’s princess dress in front of three hundred cruel, cheering teenagers—Mia looked like a sixteen-year-old girl.

She looked free.

"The federal court is appointing an independent trustee to oversee the Sinclair assets," Hayes continued, handing me an official dossier bound in blue leather. "Mia and Genevieve will inherit equal shares when they turn twenty-one. It’s enough money to buy half the state of Pennsylvania. They’re safe, Clara. Your contract is fulfilled."

I looked down at the blue folder. Inside was my official reinstatement into the Diplomatic Security Service, fully signed by the Director, complete with a clean record and a back-pay authorization.

"It's over," I whispered, the weight of six years of exile and blood finally beginning to lift from my shoulders.

"Yeah," Hayes said, taking a sip of his coffee. "It's over. Go home, Clara. Get some sleep."

He clapped me on the shoulder with his heavy hand and began limping down the corridor toward the elevators.

I turned back to the window, watching the two girls share an apple, their quiet laughter drifting through the partially opened door. I felt a rare, fragile sense of peace settle over my chest.