The moment I stepped back into the Gayle Mansion, the silence hit differently. It wasn't the quiet of peace—but the kind that warns of a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.
There was no time to rest. No space to breathe.
The funeral was over, the condolences given, the final goodbyes spoken. But grief doesn't wait for permission to pass—and neither does the world.
This wasn't the end.
It was the beginning of something else entirely.
A quiet knock echoed against the door of her home office. Jays didn't turn. She stood by the tall window, eyes fixed on the garden below where the wind stirred the roses and the sky was beginning to cloud over.
Jays: Come in
The door creaked open, followed by the soft, deliberate sound of wheels against hardwood.
Papa—Russel Rodriguez—entered the room with the kind of presence that still turned heads, even in a wheelchair. His once-strong frame might have thinned, but his eyes were sharp, still holding the weight of a man who had survived wars, betrayals, and worse.
Jays didn't need to look at him to know he was watching her. Studying the tension in her shoulders. Measuring her silence.
Papa: You've been standing there for a while.
Jays: Storm is coming our way.
Papa: I can feel it too.
Papa: We need to let them know we have an heir to the Gayle empire. They shouldn't think that getting rid of you gives them access to anything. Without you, they get nothing — not the name, not the power, not a single asset.
Russel watched her for a moment, then added, his voice low but serious.
Papa: You need to be prepared for tomorrow.
He leaned back slightly, the weight of his words settling between them.
Papa: The newspapers. They'll be running the story. Front page. The world's going to know by sunrise that the Gayle empire has an heir.
He turned his wheelchair toward the door, pausing just before crossing the threshold. And with that, he was gone—his quiet departure leaving behind the echo of his words and the weight of the coming storm.
Jays stood in the silence, the low hum of the evening wind whispering through the tall windows. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—calm, composed, but with fire just beneath the surface.
Tomorrow, the world would know.