Darris ripped the phone from the boy's grasp with enough force that the glass casing whined against his signet ring. The screen glare painted his hollow cheekbones in a sickly blue tint. "Ennis, step back," Tavira whispered. Her voice sounded thin, stripped of moisture. She pulled the silk bedsheet up to her clavicle, her shoulders knotting as the room's temperature seemed to plunge. Darris did not look at the child. His thumb scrolled rapidly, flicking past cryptographic authentication badges from the High Magistrate's registry. The document unfolded in sharp, unyielding digital ink: a certified coroner's filing from the North Harbour morgue, timestamped forty-eight hours before their encounter at the terminal. Attached was a facial composite photograph, grey-skinned and slack, bearing the name *Tavira Cole* beneath an inked seal of biological termination. Beside it sat the legal identity profile of her twin sister—flagged for active fraud. He read every syllable without blinking. When he finally lowered his hand, his expression was completely void of the tenderness that had gentled his features only an hour before. "The corpse was burned in an unmarked district kiln," Darris said. His voice dropped into a register so level it felt dangerous. "Three days ago. You staged her drowning. Or did you push her?" "No—Darris, listen to me—" "Which one are you?" He stepped off the mattress, towering over her in bare feet and loose linen trousers, the muscle across his back tight as drawn wire. "Did Tavira drown, and my former lover stole her child's future to play the martyr? Or did the saintly twin throttle the monster so she could slide into my sheets and fleece my accounts?" "My sister died of an overdose in an alley behind the docks!" Tavira scrambled to her knees, dragging the covers with her, her palms flat against the dark wood of the floorboards. "She took my name, Darris! She used my identification at the clinic because her credit was frozen by collectors! When she stopped breathing, they logged me as dead because of the card in her purse!" "A convenient administrative error," Darris mocked, stepping toward her until his shadow swallowed her entirely. "You let me believe you were a reformed wretch. You let me bare every pathetic insecurity in this room while you memorized my weaknesses. You aren't Lyra trying to be better. You're an imposter running a syndicate-grade switch." Ennis backed into the corridor, his fingers digging into the plush fur of his toy. His lower lip trembled, but his grey pupils locked onto Darris with sudden, sharp comprehension. "Mom didn't push anyone. My mother grows gentians. She paints them on linen. You have bad numbers in your head." "Go to your room, Ennis," Darris commanded, not breaking his stare from Tavira. "Now." Pellam appeared in the open doorway, hair wild from sleep, his twelve-year-old frame wedging itself between Ennis and the master bedroom. "Leave him alone, Morvel! She did it for us! If the state knew Lyra was dead and Tavira had no legal assets, they would have split us up into ward facilities across the Bay!" "Shut your mouth, boy," Darris snapped, the venom in his tone cracking the air like a whip. "You conspired in a felony that carries twenty years in an offshore block." He turned back to Tavira, leaning down until his mouth hovered inches from her ear. The scent of rain and skin lingered between them, turned sour by suspicion. "Every sigh. Every touch. You timed it to match the settlement negotiations, didn't you? How much did you expect to bleed from the probate courts once you trapped me into a wedding?" "I loved you before I knew your bank account existed," she choked out, tears finally breaking across her lashes, tracking hot down her cheeks. "Seven years ago, in the greenhouse conservatory behind the university—it was me, Darris! Not Lyra! She took my pass, she met you at the regatta, she took credit for everything I ever said to you!" "Save the pathetic fables for the magistrate." A low, rhythmic wail cut through the roar of the coastal gale outside. Red and cobalt beams sliced through the shear curtains, painting the black marble walls in emergency strobe patterns. Tires squealed on wet slate down the winding driveway. Darris’s terminal on the dresser chimed with an external security override. A gravelly voice crackled from the speaker: *"Mr. Morvel. This is Inspector Garrow, Regional Fraud Division. We have an active warrant for the apprehension of the individual residing under the name Lyra Cole, flagged by an evidentiary packet delivered by Lord Cassel's legal team. Open the outer gates or we breach under emergency jurisdiction."* Tavira froze, the blood draining from her lips. "Ennis... they'll take Ennis. If I'm processed under a fraudulent identity, he goes to the municipal intake." Darris reached down, his fingers clamping around her bare forearm with bruising force. He hauled her to her feet, paying no heed to the bedsheet pooling on the floor. "Get dressed. You wanted an audience; you’re about to get one." "Darris, please!" She pulled against his grip, but his fingers were iron. "Hate me. Put me in a cell tomorrow. But don't let them take my son into the system! You saw what they do to unregistered dependents in this city!" "You should have considered your progeny before you built an empire out of perjury," he hissed, dragging her past the threshold into the gallery corridor. Pellam lunged forward, throwing his small weight against Darris’s hip. "Let her go, you coward! Let her go!" Darris shrugged the boy off with a single, sharp twist of his torso, sending Pellam skidding across the polished runner rug. Ennis didn't cry. The four-year-old dropped his toy, stepped forward, and looked directly into the face of the billionaire who shared his eyes. "White moves to E4," Ennis said, his voice terrifyingly calm for a toddler. "You sacrificed your queen on turn twelve because you thought the bishop was a bluff. You always think people are bluffing when they’re just standing there." Darris paused on the landing, his boot hovering over the first marble step descending into the grand foyer. The glass dome above rattled under the sheets of rain. Down below, heavy fists hammered against the reinforced oak doors, accompanied by the mechanical whirr of hydraulic rams being prepped by the tactical unit. *"Open the door, Morvel! We know she's inside!"* The red light pulsed across Tavira’s tear-stained face. She wasn't fighting him anymore. She stood slack in his grip, her head bowed, shielding her ribs as if awaiting an impact, completely defeated. Darris looked down at her bare wrist, where faint calluses from drawing pens marked the skin—marks her twin had never possessed in her vain, manicured life. Then he looked back at Ennis, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pellam, small hands clenched into rigid, defiant fists. The oak doors groaned under the first hydraulic thud. Darris tightened his grip on her arm, his knuckles whitening, his face an indecipherable mask as the locks began to shear.

The Shattered Illusion