Chapter 4
Elizabeth set out to practice shooting.
For the next two days, Elizabeth kept a low profile in her room. But behind closed doors, she was anything but idle—combing through encrypted networks and black market channels with surgical precision.
She needed to find a place where she could not only practice shooting but also be sufficiently concealed, completely separating herself from her public identity as "the eldest daughter of the Windsor Family".
Eventually, a private club called Sunnyvale surfaced on her radar. Forum reviews praised it as a place that "only cares about cash, asks zero questions, runs professional facilities, and keeps mouths shut."
Perfect.
She purchased a temporary membership through their encrypted system and scheduled her first visit via anonymous email.
Charles couldn't have cared less about her whereabouts. Hughes's death had buried him under a mountain of legal paperwork and estate settlements.
Hughes's fortune—even just the legitimate assets—was enough to consume all his attention. And now Sophie and Vivian had finally moved into the Windsor estate as its new mistresses, showering Charles with attention and affection at every turn.
He had no time to spare for Elizabeth's comings and goings.
Sunnyvale occupied the guts of an old warehouse building. The entrance was easy to miss—just a heavy metal door and a camera-equipped security panel. Nothing screamed "gun range" about it.
After she punched in her temp access code, the door groaned open. A distinct smell hit her immediately: gunpowder mixed with oil and concrete.
The interior was cavernous and brightly lit.
Figures moved at shooting lanes, focused on their targets. Nobody spared the newcomer a second glance. The air hummed with a silent, concentrated intensity.
A heavily tattooed man with arms like tree trunks approached. He sized her up with a single sweep of his eyes. "New blood? Temp member?"
Elizabeth tugged her cap lower and nodded, sliding an envelope stuffed with cash across the counter. "I need a lane. And basic instruction."
The guy weighed the envelope in his palm, then pocketed it. He jerked his chin toward the far end of the range. "Back corner. Rules are posted. Safety first—you screw up, that's on you. Coach costs extra. Hourly rate."
"Get me one," Elizabeth said flatly.
The instructor assigned to her was a taciturn middle-aged man named Carter Rivera.
He didn't waste words, but his experience showed in every movement. After inspecting the ladies' pistol Elizabeth had brought, he dove straight into the essentials: safety protocols and shooting fundamentals.
"Firm grip. Wrist straight. Align your eye, the front sight, and the target—three points, one line."
Elizabeth absorbed every syllable like her life depended on it.
Because maybe it did.
The first live round she fired nearly jumped out of her hands. The recoil slammed through her wrists, and the muzzle flash made her flinch. The bullet went God-knows-where.
Her palms stung. Her eardrums rang.
But she adjusted. Recalled Carter's instructions. Raised the gun again.
At first, the bullets scattered across the paper like buckshot. Some missed the target entirely. Her soft hands blistered almost immediately against the textured grip, raw and angry. But she only tightened her hold and kept squeezing the trigger.
Sweat soaked through her mask. Her shoulders screamed from absorbing shot after shot. The pain was sharp, relentless.
She was merciless with herself.
Carter stood back with his arms crossed, watching.
He'd trained all kinds—trust fund brats looking for thrills, nervous first-timers, weekend warriors. But this girl? She was different.
No pampered rich-girl whining. No reckless adrenaline-chasing. Just focus. Raw, stubborn, uncompromising focus. And something burning in her eyes—something that didn't quit.
She got a story, he thought.
After several hours of brutal repetition, Carter finally called it. "That's enough for today. Your muscles are fried. Push it any harder, and you'll just hurt yourself."
Elizabeth stared at the target downrange. It looked like Swiss cheese—holes everywhere except where they were supposed to be.
She pressed her lips together but didn't argue. Just set the gun down and started cleaning it with meticulous care, her movements clumsy but deliberate.
From that day on, She devoted almost all her time to it, gone before dawn, back long after midnight.
Her palms blistered. Then the blisters popped, weeping and raw. Scabs formed, only to crack open again under fresh friction. She wrapped them in gauze and kept going.
Every time she gripped the gun, pain lanced through the bandages. She didn't even blink.
Load. Chamber. Aim. Fire.
Thousands of repetitions. When her arms gave out, she'd rest for five minutes. Then started again.
Her progress was undeniable.
From missing the entire target to landing shots. From ten meters to fifteen. Then twenty. She soaked through shirt after shirt. Calluses thickened over her calluses.
Carter would offer the occasional pointer, but mostly he just watched in silence. He could tell she was running from something—or toward something. Either way, it wasn't his business to ask.
Sunnyvale had rules: take the cash, keep your mouth shut.
She devoted almost all her time to it.
Elizabeth stood at the twenty-meter mark, her bandaged hands steady as they cradled the pistol. The human-shaped target stared back at her from the far end of the lane.
A week of hell had left her body wrung out, but her mind had never been sharper.
Every blister, every ache—it was worth it. She'd never be anyone's victim again.
She controlled her breathing. Felt the rhythm of her heartbeat. And in the space between one breath and the next, she squeezed the trigger.
The magazine emptied in a steady cadence, each shot echoing through the warehouse like a drumbeat.
She lowered the gun and hit the recall button. The target glided toward her.
Carter had drifted over without her noticing.
The paper stopped in front of them.
Every single round had punched through the chest cavity—a tight cluster over the heart. Fatal zone.
Not a single miss.
Carter stared at the target. Then at the girl beside him.
Seven days. Zero to this.
Effort alone didn't explain it. This was something else.
Jesus Christ. I'd got a natural on my hands.
Elizabeth gazed at the cluster of holes—proof of seven days of blood, sweat, and sheer stubbornness.
A slow exhale escaped her lips.
Pride surged through her chest, hot and fierce.
For the first time in her life, she'd seized real power.