Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 191 - Chapitre 200

Marcus Shaw did not believe in coincidence.He believed in repetition, in data that refused to stay buried, in the quiet alignment of details that most people dismissed because they arrived years apart and dressed differently each time.It was nearly two in the morning when the pattern surfaced.The Crosswell security floor was silent, lights dimmed to a functional glow. Screens displayed logistics routes, port feeds, and dormant threat models. Marcus sat alone at the long workstation, sleeves rolled up, jacket abandoned over the back of his chair. He had been reviewing a routine surveillance escalation report tied to Whitmore assets when one name appeared where it did not belong.Not once.Twice.

The file Marcus placed on the table did not look dangerous.No red stamps. No warning labels. No dramatic seals.Just a thin, time-worn folder with a date stamped twenty-three years ago and a classification code that should not have survived multiple system migrations.Nathaniel did not touch it at first.He stood by the window of his office, Virex City spread below him in geometric obedience, and listened as Marcus finished his report.“The incident was officially ruled an accident,” Marcus said. “Single-vehicle collision. Rain. Guardrail failure. Two adult fatalities. No surviving witnesses listed.”Nathaniel

Lillian became aware of it the way one notices a change in air pressure. Not sudden. Not alarming. Just present.She felt it first in the mornings.Not in Nathaniel’s gaze. His attention had always been deliberate, contained, respectful of boundaries he enforced on himself more than on her. This was different. This was diffuse. Ambient. As if the world had leaned closer without touching.Bloom House Floral remained unchanged on the surface. The same bell. The same light slanting across the stone floor at eight twenty. The same delivery men who greeted her with familiarity that required no words. Yet she sensed pauses that lingered a fraction too long.A passerby slowed near the window and did not look at the flowers.A woman across

Bloom House Floral had never felt small to Lillian until Beatrice Whitmore stepped inside it.The bell chimed as it always did, soft and unassuming. Lillian looked up from the counter, expecting one of her regulars. Instead, she found Beatrice standing just inside the doorway, gloved hands folded, posture composed with ceremonial care.For a moment, neither of them spoke.The shop was midmorning quiet. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching on glass vases and the pale petals of early camellias. The air smelled green and clean, damp stems and citrus leaves. Familiar. Grounding.Beatrice removed her gloves slowly, as if acknowledging a threshold.“You keep it exactly as you did,” she said.