Elena closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, breathing hard, her pulse still humming from the argument downstairs.
She crossed the room, opened her laptop, and typed one word into the search bar:
ARMSTRONG.
The screen flooded instantly. Articles, photos, scandals, achievements, political campaigns, charity events, billion-dollar deals, marriages, tragedies, rumors…
"Damn," she whispered.
Edward wasn't exaggerating.
They weren't just powerful.
They were everywhere.
She clicked on the family profile—one of those polished magazine spreads meant to glorify old money.
Perfect lighting. Perfect smiles.
Perfect monsters.
Elena grabbed a stack of printer paper, loaded it, and hit PRINT.
The machine whirred to life.
One by one, their lives slid out in black and white.
She carried the stack to a blank wall, grabbed a handful of pins, and started building.
First, she pinned up the headline:
THE ARMSTRONG DYNASTY — THE FAMILY THAT OWNS HALF THE WORLD
Then the faces.
Xander Armstrong — the heir.
Polished suit, clean jawline. Eyes that looked too sharp for a man his age. A reputation that was polished and untouchable. The golden son of a global dynasty.
Her thumb lingered on the picture.
If anyone in the Armstrong bloodline had the power, money, and arrogance to order a hit on her parents… it was him.
But she couldn't assume. Not yet.
She pinned him in the center.
Around him, she built a web.
Paul Armstrong — the father. World-famous neurosurgeon, humanitarian on paper, rumored sociopath behind closed doors.
Victoria Armstrong — the mother. Elegant museum owner, dripping diamonds and generational wealth. Cold eyes. Killer smile.
Maddox Armstrong — the brother. Club king, socialite, playboy. Connections to half of London's underground.
Harper Armstrong — the sister. Founder of HARPER BEAUTY, the fashion house that ruled Europe's runways.
Daphne "Grandma" Armstrong — country club royalty.
Arthur "Grandpa" Armstrong — the sick but terrifying patriarch.
Senator Ryan Armstrong and Lady Helen Armstrong — Uncle and Aunt. The political power couple controlling entire sectors of Europe.
Elena stood back, staring at the staggering reality.
Ten pictures.
One family.
A dynasty that had erased her parents like they were street dust.
She didn't know which one ordered her parents' death.
She didn't know who paid the hitmen.
She didn't know who shut down the investigation, bribed the police, sealed the files, and labeled her mother and father's murder as an "unfortunate accident."
But she would find out.
Even if it meant taking them down one by one.
She connected each picture with red thread, forming lines, triangles, webs—
her wall growing into something monstrous.
Something hungry.
All roads led to London.
And that was where she had to go.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting skin.
But she wasn't stupid.
She knew the moment she stepped into their world, the game would changed.
She wasn't dealing with street thugs or low-level hitmen.
This time, she was stepping into the lion's den.
She took a step back and whispered to herself—
"Careful and thorough… or dead."
Then she grabbed her suitcase and began packing.
-------
The plane touched down in London with a soft jolt.
Elena didn't flinch.
Everyone else around her stretched, yawned, reached for phones.
Normal people.
Regular lives.
She sat perfectly still, eyes narrowed on the foggy window as the city unfolded below—gray skies, cold steel, endless lights.
A nest of monsters, she thought.
And she had flown straight into it.
When the doors opened, the chill slapped her in the face.
Not unpleasantly.
More like an invitation.
"Welcome to London," the flight attendant chirped.
Elena gave a polite smile that didn't come close to reaching her eyes.
She moved through Heathrow like a ghost—black coat, black boots, hair tied back, expression unreadable. The airport buzzed around her, but her mind was somewhere else entirely:
The wall back home.
The faces staring at her.
The threads leading her here.
The Armstrongs.
She clenched her passport tighter.
Customs waved her through with barely a second glance.
Good.
She preferred being invisible.
Outside, a driver waited—Edward insisted despite their argument.
A polished black Mercedes.
Tinted windows.
An older man in a chauffeur cap holding a small sign:
Ms. Elena Charles
She walked up.
"Miss Charles," he greeted softly, "Your father asked me to bring you to the place he prepared."
Her chest tightened.
Edward always worried. Even when she didn't want him to.
She nodded once and slipped into the back seat.
London unfolded around her,
old stone buildings, new glass ones, wealth dripping from every surface.
And somewhere inside it…
her parents' killer.
The driver spoke softly, "Your father secured a private loft for you. Very discreet. Overlooks the Thames."
Elena's lips twitched.
Of course he did.
"Take me there," she murmured.
The car rolled forward.
Rain began its quiet descent, tapping against the window, blurring the city into streaks of silver.
As they crossed into central London, something on a massive billboard caught her eye.
A gorgeous model wrapped in a shimmering gown.
Gold, flawless, ethereal.
HARPER BEAUTY — BY HARPER ARMSTRONG
Her pulse spiked.
"THE SISTER."
She turned her face from the window before the driver noticed her shift in expression.
They continued through the city until they reached a tall industrial building renovated into modern lofts. Discreet. Stylish. The kind of place no one would question someone staying yet no one would think to search.
Edward couldn't have chosen better.
The driver handed her the keys.
"There is food in the fridge, miss. And money your father insisted you take."
She took the envelope silently.
Then she looked up at the building and sucked in a deep breath.
This was where the war began.
She stepped inside, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the loft.
Exposed brick.
Tall windows.
A perfect view of the Thames.
And directly across the river—
standing tall, gleaming in the gray morning light—
Armstrong Global Headquarters.
Her jaw clenched.
"Found you," she whispered under her breath.
She dropped her suitcase, walked to the window, and stared at the empire she came to burn.
"Let's dance," she murmured.