Georgia's eyes swept the carnage one more time, cataloguing each detail. The shattered nightstand. The deep claw marks gouged into the floorboards. The unconscious white tiger that was the Imperium's most decorated Marshal. And the bruise on her wrist-angry, purple, unmistakable.

Outside, the hushed voices grew closer. Hurried footsteps. The click of a camera being readied.

"Right this way," Meredith's voice came again, louder now, dripping with false concern. "I'm so worried about my sister. She's been acting so... erratic lately."

The doorknob rattled. A pause. Then the sound of an electronic override being activated.

Georgia didn't move. She let her shoulders slump, let her hair fall across her face in tangled disarray. She didn't have to fake the trembling.

The door burst open.

A blaze of camera flashes seared her eyes. She flinched-genuinely-and curled in on herself, making herself small.

"Oh my god, Georgia!" Meredith's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with theatrical horror. "What have you done?"

Georgia lifted her head just enough to see her stepsister's face. The perfect mask of shock. The glint of triumph barely hidden in her eyes. And behind her, a pack of journalists from The Imperial Tribune, their cameras already capturing every damning detail of the scene.

"It wasn't-I didn't-" Georgia's voice came out as a broken whisper. She let the sentence die, let the silence do the work.

A journalist pushed forward, his recorder extended like a weapon. "Princess Shields, is it true you drugged Marshal Kensington?"

Georgia's eyes went wide-not with guilt, but with a carefully calibrated terror. She shook her head mutely, her gaze darting to the unconscious tiger and back to the reporters as if she couldn't comprehend what she was seeing.

"Look at the state of this room," another reporter muttered, his camera clicking rapidly. "There was clearly a struggle."

"A struggle she caused," Meredith interjected quickly, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Georgia has been... obsessed with Marshal Kensington for years. I never thought she'd go this far."

Georgia heard the words, and something cold and hard crystallized in her chest. There it was. The knife, slipped neatly between her ribs while wrapped in sisterly concern.

She pressed herself further into the corner, hugging her knees to her chest. Let them spin their narrative. She would bide her time.

That was when the heavy tread of military boots echoed in the hallway.

Preston Kensington—Landis's nephew —appeared at the door, his face dark as a storm. His gaze swept across the room—wreckage, reporters, a crying girl in the corner—then settled on the huge white tiger.

His pupils contracted.

"Clear the room," he said, his voice low and lethal. "Now."

"Lord Preston," Meredith began, her voice honeyed, "surely the public has a right to-"

"I said get out."

The command was backed by a wave of oppressive pheromones. The reporters scrambled backward as if pushed by an invisible hand. Meredith's face went pale, then flushed with fury, but she had no choice. She retreated with the others, though her eyes promised this wasn't over.

The door slammed shut. The room fell silent save for Georgia's ragged breathing and the deep, steady respiration of the unconscious tiger.

Preston's cold gaze fixed on Georgia. "What did you do to him?"

Georgia didn't answer immediately. She let the silence stretch, let him see the bruises forming on her arms, the scratch on her cheek, the utter devastation of the room.

"I survived," she whispered finally. "That's what I did."

She lifted her wrist, showing him the darkening bruise-the unmistakable imprint of a large hand.

Preston stared at it. The silence between them was a living thing, coiled and waiting.

---

Preston's eyes remained fixed on the bruise. His military training catalogued it with cold precision-defensive wound, grip strength consistent with an SSS-grade Beastkin in distress, no sign of self-infliction. The evidence was damning, but not for her.

His jaw tightened. He had been so certain. So ready to condemn her. The shame was unfamiliar, and he didn't know what to do with it.

Georgia watched him, reading the micro-expressions flickering across his face. The doubt. The recalculation. She was still trembling-she couldn't stop-but her mind was clear and sharp and cold.

"Marshal Kensington was already collapsing when I woke up," she said, her voice steadier now. "He told me to get out. I tried. He-" She let her gaze drop to the bruise on her wrist. "He lost control."

Preston took a step toward the unconscious tiger, crouching to check his uncle's vitals. His brow furrowed. "What stopped him?"

Georgia reached into the wreckage near the nightstand and retrieved the empty auto-injector. She held it up. "Suppressant. Military-grade. There was a first-aid kit in the drawer."

Preston's eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe a Null-Female got close enough to an SSS-grade Beastkin in full rampage to inject him?"

"Believe what you want." Georgia's voice was flat. "I'm still here. He's still alive. That's all that matters."

A muscle in Preston's jaw twitched. He wanted to argue, to find some flaw in her story, but the evidence surrounded him. The shattered furniture. The claw marks. Her injuries. And the simple, irrefutable fact that his uncle was breathing and she was not dead.

The sound of hurried footsteps approached the door. Military boots. Then the door swung open, and a team of medical personnel in white hazmat suits filed in, the Institute of Sciences emblem on their chests.

"Lord Preston," the lead doctor acknowledged with a curt nod. Her eyes swept the room with professional detachment, taking in the wreckage, the unconscious tiger, the battered woman huddled on the floor. "We need to stabilize the Marshal immediately."

"Get him out of here," Preston ordered. "Full workup. Tox screen. Atmospheric samples. Everything."

The team moved with swift efficiency. A hovering anti-grav stretcher was maneuvered into position. As they worked, Preston turned to the door-where Meredith had reappeared, her expression a careful mask of concern.

"I told you to leave," he said.

"I was worried about my sister." Meredith's gaze slid past him to Georgia. "The reporters are still outside. They have questions. The public will want answers about what happened here tonight."

Georgia felt the trap closing. Meredith wanted her outside, facing the cameras, where a single wrong word could be twisted into a confession. Last time, she had crumbled under that pressure. This time-

"I have nothing to hide," Georgia said quietly, pushing herself to her feet. The torn nightgown, the bruises, the exhaustion-all of it was armor now. "Let them ask."

Meredith's eyes widened. This wasn't the script. "Georgia, you're in shock. You shouldn't-"

"She can speak for herself." Preston's voice cut through Meredith's protest. There was something new in the way he looked at Georgia now. Not trust. Not yet. But a willingness to listen.

He stepped aside, and Georgia walked past him, past Meredith, and into the hallway where the reporters waited like wolves.

The camera flashes resumed. Questions flew at her from all directions.

"Princess Shields, is it true-"

"Were you alone in the room with-"

"Did you administer the Pheromone Inducer yourself?"

Georgia stopped in the center of the corridor. She let them see her-the torn clothing, the bruises, the exhaustion. And then she lifted her injured wrist, turning it so the cameras could capture every brutal detail.

"I didn't drug anyone," she said, her voice carrying clearly through the chaos. "I was the one who called for help. I was the one who administered the emergency Suppressant that saved Marshal Kensington's life."

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

"Ask Lord Preston what he found when he arrived. Ask the medical team what they're testing for right now. And ask my stepsister-" her gaze flicked to Meredith, "-why she disabled the electronic lock before bringing all of you here."

The accusations hung in the air like a blade.

Meredith's face went white. "That's-that's absurd. I would never-"

But the reporters had already swiveled toward her, sensing a juicier story than the one she had promised them.

Georgia didn't wait to see the outcome. She turned and walked toward the elevator, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. No one stopped her.

---