The queen was back. But the queen was not the same.

Aarohi sat in the office, reviewing the empire's finances. The numbers were staggering. Billions in liquid assets. Properties in fourteen countries. Shell companies that numbered in the hundreds. Banking relationships that spanned from Zurich to Singapore to the Cayman Islands. It was a labyrinth of wealth and power, and she was the Minotaur at the center.

But she was also the architect of its destruction.

She had spent three days since her return observing. Listening. Remembering. She had noted the security schedules. She had identified the weak links. She had found the cracks in the foundation. And she had begun to wedge her fingers into them.

The first crack was Dmitri. The Russian was paranoid. He believed that Rajveer was planning to replace him. He had been moving assets to a private account in Cyprus. Aarohi had documented it. She had planted evidence that Dmitri was planning to defect to a rival cartel. And she had sent the evidence to Rajveer.

Dmitri would be dead by Friday. And the Moscow pipeline would be in chaos.

The second crack was Carlos. The Colombian was greedy. He had been skimming from the production line. Aarohi had the proof. She had sent it to the Mexican cartel that was Carlos's primary competitor. They would handle the rest.

Carlos would be dead by Sunday. And the Bogotá production would be leaderless.

The third crack was the banking. She had access to the accounts. She had the passwords. She had begun to move small amounts—millions, not billions—to accounts that she controlled. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to destabilize. Just enough to create panic.

She was dismantling the empire from the inside. One piece at a time. One person at a time. One dollar at a time.

And Rajveer did not suspect a thing.

He came to her at noon. He was carrying lunch. Sandwiches and fruit and wine that was expensive and cold. He sat across from her desk. He smiled. He was happy. He was the man who had gotten everything he wanted, and he did not know that everything was about to crumble.

"You are working too hard," he said.

"The empire does not rest."

"The empire can rest. The empire can wait. But you cannot. You need to eat. You need to sleep. You need to live."

"I am living."

"Are you?" He leaned forward. He looked at her. "Because I look at you and I see a woman who is planning something. A woman who is calculating. A woman who is waiting. And I am afraid that you are waiting for the moment when you can leave again."

"I am not going anywhere."

"Then prove it. Come to dinner tonight. Not a business dinner. A personal dinner. Just us. The throne room. Candles. Wine. And the promise of a future that does not include the empire."

"What does it include?"

"Us. You and me. A small island. A simple house. A life that is not built on power but on peace. I have been thinking about what you said. About freedom. About the cage. And I want to be free too. I want to leave the empire. I want to be with you. And I want to do it soon. Before it is too late."

She looked at him. She looked at the man who was offering her a future. A real future. A future without the throne. Without the empire. Without the power.

And she felt the temptation. The pull. The desire to say yes. To take his hand. To get on the plane. To disappear.

But she could not. Because she was the spy. Because she was the agent. Because she had a mission. And because the man who was offering her freedom was the same man who had built the cage.

"I would like that," she said. "But first, we need to stabilize the empire. We need to ensure that it can survive without us. And then we can leave. Together."

He smiled. It was a genuine smile. A hopeful smile. A smile of a man who was dreaming of a future that would never exist.

"Together," he said. "I like the sound of that."

He stood. He kissed her forehead. He walked out.

She sat at the desk. She looked at the numbers. She looked at the evidence. She looked at the end that was coming.

And she felt the guilt. The guilt of the lie. The guilt of the betrayal. The guilt of the love that was not love but was something close enough to hurt.

She pushed it aside. She focused on the work. She focused on the destruction. She focused on the end.

Because she was the queen. And the queen was coming for the king.