She had money. She had people. For skills… she had at least a foundation.

But Jones's spies lurked everywhere like vipers.


Charlotte moved with lightning speed.

She pawned her mother's silver ring and, with Harrison's loan, secured enough for pine charcoal and premium clay. Cash only, scattered purchases, no paper trail.

Lewis and Wilson—two weathered, silent craftsmen—slipped into Pinewave's yard under cover of darkness. They gazed with complex emotions at the empty workshop and Christopher's absence.


"What's the plan, kid?" Lewis asked gruffly.

"I'll follow your lead," Charlotte said, eyes determined. "I can't throw like Dad. We'll use my pieces."


She brought out her "experiments" from her room—dozens of bisque-fired forms.

Their shapes were startling—twisted mountains, geometric facets—and her planned glazes even more daring: slate blue, caramel, matte white, some with metallic powders.

"Jesus…" Wilson examined an asymmetrical teapot, frowning deeply. "If Chris sees these… might give him another stroke."

"Wilson!" Charlotte's eyes blazed. "Dad fires tradition, I fire innovation! If they succeed, Pinewave is reborn. If they fail… I'll bear the blame alone."

The old craftsmen exchanged glances and sighed before silently beginning work. Trimming forms, applying glazes—their movements precise, born from decades of discipline.

Glazing was critical. Charlotte locked herself away, windows and doors sealed. Her father's notebook lay open, his bold handwriting filling the pages. Following Harrison's instructions, she measured malachite powder and purple-gold clay, then added her own experimental materials. Her hands shook violently.

"Dad… be with me…" she whispered.