Ariella didn't sleep.
Not that night. Not the next.
While the rest of the team rotated between collapsing in exhaustion or organizing recon efforts, Ariella stalked the halls of the Alpine safehouse like a ghost in velvet armor—silent, cold, untouchable.
She didn't cry.
Not anymore.
The tears had dried in the forest where Eleanor had once built her snowmen. In the nursery where her laughter had once echoed. In the footage of Margot's desperate message.
Now, only fire remained.
She stood alone in the estate's command room, surrounded by screens, maps, and weapons. Her fingers tapped against the table rhythmically, her thoughts whirling like knives.
Behind her, Leo entered quietly, holding two cups of coffee. He offered one. She didn't take it.
"Ariella," he said softly. "You need to rest. You haven't eaten."
"I'll eat when she's back in my arms," she replied flatly, not turning.
Leo set the mug down beside her. "You can't help Eleanor if you burn yourself out."
