The invitation arrived on a quiet afternoon.

Cream-colored envelope. Handwritten lettering. No media branding. No spectacle.

Just:

The Hayes Foundation Inaugural Gala

Amara held it between her fingers longer than necessary.

She hadn’t expected it to feel heavy.

But it did.

Not because of what it represented.

Because of who would inevitably be there.

The foundation was years in the making.

Built quietly.

Carefully.

A space dedicated to women rebuilding after public collapse — careers, reputations, lives shattered under scrutiny.

A cause she understood too well.

This wasn’t revenge.

This wasn’t legacy.

This was closure turned into purpose.

Jenna leaned against the doorway, watching her.

“You’re thinking about him.”

Amara...