PART 2 – FULL: DYLAN GRABBED MY DAUGHTER’S NECK, HIS MMA GLOVE PRESSING HER THROAT INTO THE CRUSHED LILACS.

Disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. It does not represent any organization or individual, nor does it encourage inappropriate behavior. The content was generated with AI assistance.

PART 2:

Time starts now.

The world went quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of a lawnmower somewhere beyond the barn, and the distant chatter of guests who had stopped pretending to be polite. I planted my feet on the grass, feeling the worn ground beneath my sneakers. My body remembered every lesson the Army had carved into it, even after all these years.

Dylan circled me with his fists up. He was twenty years old, strong, and fast. But he had never been in a real fight. He had never been thrown through a window in a country that didn’t make it to the evening news. He had never watched a man die with his hands wrapped around a weapon he couldn’t control.

I saw all of that in his eyes. The lack of fear. The surplus of ego.

He threw the first punch wide and hard, a haymaker meant to impress the crowd. It whistled past my ear as I bent backward. The momentum carried him off balance. I didn’t even need to touch him. He stumbled forward, and I slid to the side, letting his mistake do the work.

One second.

He spun around, fists up again, but now he was breathing harder. He was angry that his punch had missed. He kicked at my knee, a sloppy move from a gym class, not a combat training course. I raised my leg, deflected his shin, and swept his other ankle with my foot.

Two seconds.

He went down hard. His shoulder hit the grass first, then his head bounced. I heard the air leave his lungs. He rolled onto his back, gasping, but I didn’t move forward. I waited. Because the fight wasn’t about showing off. It was about control.

He scrambled up with a handful of dirt and threw it at my face.

The grit stung my eyes. I blinked, stepped back, and wiped my sleeve across my face. In that moment of blurred vision, I heard him charge. I instinctively dropped low, wrapped my arms around his waist, and lifted. He was heavier than me, but I wasn’t lifting him with strength alone. I used his own momentum. I pivoted, and he slammed onto the ground again.

Four seconds.

This time, I didn’t wait. I moved in, placed my forearm across his chest, and used my weight to pin him. He bucked. He cursed. He swung wild, catching my shoulder with a glancing fist. The impact sent a sharp pain through the old scar under my collarbone, but I didn’t flinch.

I grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and applied pressure to the joint.

“Tap out,” I said, my voice steady.

He tried to headbutt me. I leaned back, avoiding it, then increased the pressure.

Seven seconds.

He slapped the grass three times with his free hand.

The guests were silent. Someone dropped a glass. The tinkling of ice on the patio seemed deafening.

I released him immediately. Not because I was gentle. Because I was taught that once an opponent submits, the fight is over. That was the difference between us.

Dylan rolled away, gasping for breath, dirt in his hair, a trickle of blood from his nose. He got to his feet, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. He looked at the circle of people staring at him. The humiliation was worse than the pain.

“You got lucky,” he spat.

I didn’t answer. I turned to walk toward Lily.

Then he swung at my back. I felt the air move before my instincts kicked in. I spun, caught his wrist, and used his own momentum to send him into the ground again. This time, I didn’t hold back. I put my knee on his chest and leaned close.

“That was your second free hit. There won’t be a third.”

He tried to speak, but the pressure made it hard.

Vivian screamed from the patio. “Get off him! Someone call the police! She’s assaulting my son!”

I stood up slowly and stepped away. My hands were steady. My heart rate had barely raised.

Lily was at my side in an instant, her face pale. She grabbed my arm. “Mom, you’re hurt.”

I looked down. Her thin line on my cheek from Vivian’s ring. It was bleeding.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear. With something else. Respect.

Lucas, the gardener, moved toward me. “That was the most impressive thing I’ve seen in person.”

Margaret, the housekeeper, held up her phone. “I recorded everything, Miss Rachel. The whole thing.”

Vivian was already on the phone, demanding the police come to the property. She was lying into the speaker, claiming I had attacked Dylan without warning. I saw her step close to Margaret, and before anyone could react, she slapped the phone from the housekeeper’s hand.

It hit the flagstone and cracked. Vivian’s eyes were bright with fury.

“You’ll be leaving my property tonight,” she hissed at me.

I didn’t answer. Because the property wasn’t hers. Not legally, anyway. But this wasn’t the time for that truth.

Deputy Sheriff Elena Brooks arrived in a county cruiser within fifteen minutes. She was in her forties, with short hair and an efficient way of moving. She separated everyone, took statements, and watched the video on Lily’s phone. She also looked at the scrapes on Dylan’s face and the dirt on his shirt.

“He threatened my daughter,” I said. “He grabbed her neck. And he took a swing at me after the fight was over.”

Dylan’s version was different. He claimed I challenged him, that I threw the first punch. But Lucas and Margaret backed me up. And the video was clear.

Deputy Brooks took a long look at Dylan. “You’re the MMA guy, right? The hothead.”

He started to protest, but she raised a hand.

“I’m not here to judge your gym behavior. But I’m writing up this report, and the video is evidence. You’re lucky she didn’t press charges for the assault on a minor.”

Vivian stepped forward, her voice sharp. “He was joking. You’re a county deputy, not a federal judge. I’ll be speaking to your supervisor.”

Deputy Brooks didn’t flinch. “Do what you need to do, ma’am. I’m just doing my job.”

Then Vivian made the mistake that ended everything.

She pulled out her phone and called the regional procurement office. She put it on speaker, so all fifty guests could hear. Her voice was dripping with authority.

“I need to speak with the manager. I want to report a director of federal transportation procurement named Rachel Mercer. She’s been interfering with our federal bid, and she’s clearly incompetent. I want her terminated immediately.”

There was silence on the line. Then a calm, measured man’s voice answered.

“Ms. Cross, Director Mercer is a senior official. She does not report to a local supervisor. In fact, she is the head of the very department that reviews your application.”

The color drained from Vivian’s face. Her hand trembled.

“What?”

“Your proposal was frozen seventy-two hours ago,” he continued. “There are concerns regarding the authenticity of certain documents. I’m sure Director Mercer will be in contact with you if she has questions.”

The line went dead.

Every guest turned to stare at Vivian. One investor stepped backward, letting out a low whistle. Another pulled his hand from his pocket, holding a folded document. “Under the circumstances, I think we’ll hold off on any further investment.”

Another guest, a woman with dark hair and an expensive suit, looked at me. “You’re the director? You’ve been living in that shack behind the barn?”

I didn’t answer.

Vivian’s face twisted. She pointed at me. “You planned this. You humiliated my son.”

“Your son grabbed my daughter’s neck,” I said. “And your bid is fraudulent. That has nothing to do with him.”

The guests began to murmur. A few started moving toward the main house. Dylan stood in the middle of the lawn, looking lost.

That’s when the three black government vehicles turned through the gate.

Special Agent Naomi Chen was the first out. She was in her late forties, with sharp eyes and a government ID clipped to her jacket. She scanned the crowd, then walked directly to me.

“Rachel Mercer?”

“Yes.”

She pulled out a folder. “We have a federal warrant to search the property and the CrossLine Logistics offices. We need to speak with you as well.”

Vivian started screaming. “This is harassment! My husband is a decorated Major General!”

Chen looked at her, unimpressed. “Major General Samuel Mercer is not under investigation. He is, however, expected to be notified. His signature appears on documents that he did not authorize.”

The search began. Agents fanned out across the main house, the barn, and the company trailer. I stood under the old oak tree, watching through the window as they pulled folders from Vivian’s desk. Dylan was sitting on the patio steps with his head in his hands.

My phone buzzed. It was my father, calling from overseas.

“Rachel, tell me what’s happening.”

I took a deep breath. “Your signature was copied onto federal authorization forms. Vivian submitted a forty-million-dollar proposal using your name without your consent. I referred it to the investigators five days ago.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “I’m coming home.”

“You should.”

“Rachel, I had no idea.”

“I know.”

The call ended. I pocketed the phone and walked toward the study where Agent Chen had disappeared.

The room was a museum of my mother’s taste: lace curtains, mahogany bookshelves, a painting of the farm she loved. Vivian had redecorated some of it, but the study remained sacred. Now it was scattered with papers.

Agent Chen was standing behind the desk, staring at a computer screen. When I walked in, she looked up.

“Close the door.”

I did. She turned the monitor toward me.

On the screen was a federal approval memorandum for the CrossLine Logistics contract. It was fully executed. And next to the signature line was my name.

My digital signature. My access code.

I felt the blood drain from my face. “I never signed that.”

“I know,” she said. “Your access was used from your office in Washington, D.C. Two weeks ago. While you were attending a procurement conference in Denver.”

I stared at the screen. My brain was spinning. “That’s impossible. My credentials are encrypted. I need a physical token and a secondary code to authenticate.”

Chen closed the folder. “Someone had access to both. Someone inside your agency. A deputy director, perhaps.”

I looked at her. “Aaron Blake.”

She nodded. “He’s been transferring unusually large sums of money to an offshore account. We were already building a case against him. This just confirmed it.”

The study door slammed open.

Vivian burst in, followed by a uniformed agent. “You’re ruining my family!” she screamed at me. “You’ve always been jealous of me!”

I remained calm. “You forged my father’s signature. You manipulated his trust. You moved his granddaughter into a leaking cottage. And you never once apologized.”

She lunged at me.

The agent caught her arm and held her back. She was snarling, spitting ugly words. But I wasn’t listening anymore.

Because from outside, I heard Lily scream.

I ran toward the patio. My feet barely touched the ground. The circle of guests had scattered, and in the center, the lawn was empty. Lily was gone.

Her cracked phone lay in the crushed lilacs.

I looked toward the barn. A truck engine roared to life. I saw the back of Dylan’s head through the windshield, and beside him, a figure in a navy suit.

Aaron Blake.

I sprinted toward the barn, but the truck was already pulling out onto the service road, churning dust and gravel. Agent Chen was on her radio, calling the gate team.

Lucas appeared at my side, his face white. “Dylan took her. The man in the suit opened the door. He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.”

I didn’t wait. I ran to the federal SUV, jumped in, and fired the engine. Agent Chen got in beside me.

We raced down the service road. Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of the truck ahead, swerving toward the old grain warehouse on the edge of the property. The road was lined with dry brush, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows.

The federal SUV rolled to a stop fifty yards from the warehouse. Another agent had blocked the truck with a barricade. The engine cut off. The doors opened.

Dylan climbed out, dragging Lily by the arm. Her face was pale, but her eyes were angry. Aaron Blake followed, holding a slim laptop case.

“Rachel!” Dylan shouted. “You stay back, or I swear she’ll get hurt.”

I stepped out of the vehicle. My hands were up. “Dylan, let her go. You’re already in enough trouble.”

“The old Rachel would have said that,” he spat. “But we saw the real you today. The nine-second killer.”

“That was self-defense.”

“It was a warning,” he said. “We know what you’re capable of. So Margaret and Lucas can talk. But we have your daughter. And we have your precious laptop with the evidence that Aaron is about to burn.”

Aaron walked toward the warehouse door, pushing Lily ahead of him. The interior was dark, filled with dust and the smell of dry grain. In the center stood a metal drum, already smoking.

Dylan shoved Lily onto a pile of feed sacks. Aaron set the laptop case beside the barrel and pulled out a lighter.

“You’re going to watch everything burn,” Dylan said, grinning. “Then you’re going to withdraw the investigation, or your daughter’s life gets complicated.”

I stepped inside the warehouse. Agent Chen moved behind me, her hand on her belt.

Aaron’s lighter flicked. The laptop case began to smoke at the edges.

Lily looked at me. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “Mom, he’s got a backup drive in his pocket.”

Dylan’s grin faltered. He patted his jacket. “Shut up.”

“You said it the phone,” Lily continued. “You bragged about being careful.”

Aaron stopped. He looked at Dylan. “You idiot.”

“Don’t listen to her.”

But it was too late. I had seen where Dylan’s hand went. He had a thin USB drive in his pocket.

I moved fast.

I crossed the space between us before Dylan could react. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and he yelped. The USB drive clattered to the concrete floor.

Aaron dropped the lighter and lunged for the drive. But Agent Chen was on him in a heartbeat, forcing his arms behind his back.

Lily stood up, dusting off her clothes. Her eyes were bright.

“I was never scared, Mom,” she said. “I knew you’d come.”

I held her close. My heart was pounding harder than it had in years.

The drive contained everything. The forged contract. The encrypted emails between Vivian and Aaron. The payment schedules. The names of every person who had touched the deal.

The truck outside was now surrounded by deputies. Dylan was handcuffed and read his rights. Aaron was silent as they led him to a second vehicle.

The fire in the metal drum sizzled out with a hand extinguisher. The laptop was cracked, but its files were backed up to the cloud. Aaron had been careful enough to preserve his own destruction.

I walked back to the farmhouse that night, with Lily holding my hand. The house was quiet. Vivian was in a holding cell. The investors had scattered. The federal agents had secured the property.

I sat on the porch, watching the stars come out. Lily leaned against me.

“You were amazing,” she whispered.

“I was terrified,” I answered honestly.

“But you still fought.”

I hugged her harder. “For you, I would do it a thousand times.”

We sat there until the mosquitoes found us. Then we went inside and slept in the room that had been my mother’s sewing studio, because I couldn’t face the guest cottage again.

In the weeks that followed, the house of cards collapsed. Vivian’s fraud unraveled in a federal courtroom. Her brother’s accounting firm was indicted for money laundering. Aaron Blake was convicted of conspiracy and unauthorized system access. Dylan faced charges for assault, unlawful restraint, and evidence tampering.

My father returned from overseas with a heavy heart. He stood in the study, looking at the empty desk where the forged signature had been discovered.

“I failed you,” he said quietly.

“You did.”

He winced but nodded. “Can you forgive me?”

“I don’t know yet. But I can start trusting you again, a little at a time.”

That was all he wanted.

The farm was transferred into a trust under my name. The guest cottage became a small veteran’s housing project. I kept my federal job, but I championed stricter access controls so that no one could ever misuse a signed official again.

Lily planted new lilacs beside the old ones. The scars on the ground healed slowly, just like the ones on our hearts.

One afternoon, she looked up at me with dirt on her hands.

“Why didn’t you fight back sooner?” she asked. “Why did you let them treat us like that?”

I thought about it.

“Because I thought keeping the peace was better than fighting. But I was wrong. Sometimes you have to fight so the ones you love can have peace.”

She nodded. Then she went back to planting.

The wind carried the scent of fresh soil and blossoms. And I finally felt at home.

PART 2:

The first sign of trouble came on a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the dust settled.

Lily was at school. I was in the study, reviewing the final title transfer documents when Margaret knocked on the frame.

“There’s a woman at the gate,” she said. “She asked for you by name. She says she knew your mother.”

I set down my pen. My mother had been gone for over a decade. No one had ever come to the farm asking about her.

I walked to the front porch. A woman in her early fifties stood by the iron gate, holding a worn leather briefcase. She had silver-streaked hair tied back in a bun, and a long scar across her left cheek that told me she was not a social worker.

I approached.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Rachel Mercer,” she said. “You look just like Susan.”

My chest tightened. “How did you know my mother?”

“My name is Carol Winslow. I was your mother’s attorney for twenty years.”

I opened the gate. She followed me inside, and I led her to the study. She sat in the leather chair across from the desk, placing the briefcase on her lap like a child clutching a favorite toy.

“Your mother asked me to hold something for her,” Carol said. “She gave it to me a month before she died.”

She clicked open the briefcase. Inside was a sealed manila envelope, yellowed with age, and a small wooden box.

I stared at them. “She never mentioned this.”

“She knew she couldn’t trust everyone.” Carol slid the envelope across the desk. “She said you’d know what to do when the time came.”

My hands were shaking as I broke the seal.

Inside was a deed—not to the farm, but to a separate parcel of land. A five-acre property along the Rappahannock River, twenty miles north. The title was in my name. And attached to it was a letter in my mother’s handwriting.

I read it twice before the words sank in.

“Your father never owned this,” Carol said quietly. “Your mother purchased it with her inheritance before the marriage. She kept it hidden to protect you.”

I looked at the date. The letter had been written two weeks before she passed.

“Did my father know?”

“No. And Vivian must never know. This deed was your mother’s insurance policy. She suspected your stepmother’s ambitions long before she died.”

I felt a cold weight settle in my stomach. The farm. The title transfer. The trust. It had all been about control, and I thought I had finally secured it. But this new property was a secret buried for sixteen years.

“Why are you only bringing this now?” I asked.

Carol’s expression sharpened. “Because Vivian’s brother, Richard Cross, was released on bail two days ago. And he’s already filed a claim against the farm, alleging that your mother’s estate was mishandled and that he’s owed a portion as a creditor of Vivian’s defunct company.”

My jaw tightened. “That claim has no merit.”

“It doesn’t need merit,” she said. “It needs time. Time to freeze assets, time to drag you into court, time to bleed you dry. Richard knows the legal system better than anyone. He’s spent twenty years exploiting it.”

I looked down at the deed in my hands. The property along the river was worth far more than the farm. It was a hidden asset that could be used to secure our future, but if Richard found out about it, he would try to seize it as part of Vivian’s marital estate.

“Who else knows about this?” I asked.

“Only you. And me. And your mother’s grave.”

I paced across the study, my mind racing. The farm was finally in my name. Lily was safe. The lilacs were blooming. But this new threat was a snake hidden in the grass, waiting to strike.

“What does Richard want?” I asked.

“He wants to bleed you. He believes you have money hidden away. He’s going to probe every financial record, every trust document, every transaction you’ve made.”

I stopped. “He can probe. He won’t find it.”

Carol raised an eyebrow. “So you’ll keep this secret?”

“For now. I need to know more about what Richard is planning.”

Carol nodded slowly. She stood, handing me the wooden box. “This was your mother’s. She said you’d want it more than anything else.”

I opened it. Inside was a simple silver ring with a small emerald, the same one my mother had worn every day. I thought she had been buried with it. But here it was, cool and heavy in my palm.

Tears pricked my eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“She hid it where no one would find it,” Carol said. “The same way she hid the land. She was protecting you, Rachel. She always was.”

After Carol left, I sat alone in the study for a long time. The letter was in my hands, faded but legible. My mother’s handwriting was graceful, deliberate, each word carrying the weight of a woman who knew she was running out of time.

“My darling Rachel,” it began. “If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you everything in person. But there are things about this family that your father never understood. And things about Vivian that I never trusted.”

I read on. She described a conversation she had overheard between Vivian and her brother Richard, years before my father even married her. Vivian had been planning to acquire the farm through marriage, then gradually push the Mercer family out. My mother suspected but could never prove it. So she hid the river property as a fallback—a place where we could go if everything else fell apart.

“I don’t know when you’ll need it,” she wrote. “But when you do, trust your instincts. You’re stronger than you know, stronger than anyone in that house ever told you.”

I folded the letter and tucked it into my pocket. For the first time in weeks, I felt something cold settle beneath my ribs. It wasn’t fear. It was clarity.

That evening, Lily came home with a bruise on her forearm.

She tried to hide it under her sleeve, but I saw it when she reached for the refrigerator.

“What happened?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Some kid at practice. We were doing drills.”

But her eyes were avoiding mine. I knew that look. I had worn it myself when I had something to hide.

I stepped closer, gently pulling her sleeve up. The bruise was the perfect shape of a hand grip.

“Lily.” My voice was low. “Who did this?”

She hesitated. Then she sighed.

“A woman came to school today,” she said. “She said she was a lawyer representing Richard Cross. She told me that if you didn’t drop the investigation against Dylan, I might have to testify in court. She grabbed my arm when I tried to walk away.”

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

“What did this woman look like?”

“Forty-something. Blonde. Red glasses. She said her name was Charlotte.”

I went to my phone and made a call. Agent Chen picked up on the second ring.

“Rachel. What’s going on?”

“A lawyer named Charlotte approached my daughter at school. Threats. Richard Cross is playing a new game.”

There was a pause. Then Chen said, “I know Charlotte. She’s a fixer for Richard. She’s been involved in three cases where witnesses suddenly forgot to testify.”

I gripped the phone tighter. “I need protection for Lily. And I need to know what Richard is doing with his bail.”

“I’ll have someone at the school tomorrow,” Chen said. “And I’ll send you everything I have on Richard. But Rachel, there’s something else you need to know.”

Her voice changed. More careful.

“We found a second internal mole. Someone in the D.C. office who was feeding Vivian information about your family’s finances. The name they used was a shell entity called Blackwood Holdings.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. “Blackwood?”

“Yes. Does that mean anything to you?”

I looked at the deed on the desk. My mother’s maiden name had been Blackwood.

“It does,” I said. “And I think I know exactly who’s behind it.”

I hung up and turned to Lily. Her eyes were wide, watching me.

“What does it mean, Mom?”

I sat down beside her, taking her hand.

“It means your grandmother was smarter than anyone knew. And it means Richard Cross has been digging into our family history for years.”

Then I made a decision.

I told Lily about the river property. I told her about my mother’s letter, and the hidden deed, and the legacy that Vivian and Richard had been trying to steal.

Her jaw dropped. “So we own another piece of land? And no one knew?”

“No one except me and your grandmother’s lawyer.” I took a deep breath. “But Richard knows there’s something hidden. That’s why he sent Charlotte to scare you. He wants me to panic, make a mistake, reveal what I’m holding.”

“Are you going to?”

I smiled. “No. I’m going to use it.”

That night, I drove to the river property alone.

It was a stretch of untouched land, bordered by old oaks and cattails. The water was dark and quiet under the moonlight. I walked along the bank until I found a small stone marker, half-buried in the soil.

My mother had been here. She had stood in this exact spot, looking out at the river, planning for a future she would never see.

I knelt and ran my fingers over the stone. Then I pulled out my phone and called Carol Winslow again.

“I’m at the river property,” I said. “I need to know everything you know about Blackwood Holdings.”

There was a long silence. Then Carol said, “You’d better come inside. The property has a cabin at the north end. Your mother made sure it was stocked.”

I walked up the slope and found the cabin, set back among the trees. It was small but sturdy, with a tin roof and a stone fireplace. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and dust.

Carol arrived within the hour, carrying a heavy briefcase. She laid out documents on the wooden table—records going back nearly thirty years.

“Blackwood Holdings was created by your grandfather,” she said. “It was a shell company designed to hold assets for your mother’s family. When Susan married Samuel, she hid a substantial portion of her inheritance inside it, hoping to protect it from any future creditors.”

“But Vivian found out.”

“Yes. Richard Cross is a forensic accountant. He discovered the shell company years ago, but he never could trace the actual assets. Your mother moved everything into the river property, and then she put the deed in your name without telling anyone.”

I stared at the papers. “So Richard doesn’t actually know about the land. He’s just fishing.”

Carol nodded. “He’s applying pressure to force you to reveal your hand. He knows you’re in possession of something valuable. He just doesn’t know what.”

I looked up at her. “What happens if I just let the lawsuit play out? Let him dig and find nothing?”

“Then he’ll keep digging until he finds it,” she said. “The man doesn’t give up. He has the resources, the connections, and the patience to bleed you dry for years.”

A cold determination settled in my chest.

“Then I’m going to outwait him. And I’m going to outsmart him.”

The next morning, I arrived at my office in Washington to find a black envelope on my desk.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with a handwritten message in precise, cold letters:

“DROP THE CASE. OR LILY’S NEXT BRUISE WON’T BE SO LUCKY.”

I set the letter down, my pulse steady.

I didn’t call Agent Chen. I didn’t call the police.

I called Lucas, the gardener.

He answered on the second ring.

“Miss Rachel?”

“Lucas, I need you to pick up Lily from school today. Take her to the river property. Bring Margaret and whatever supplies you need. Stay there until I call.”

He didn’t ask questions. He just said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Then I made a second call, to a number I hadn’t dialed in years.

A man’s voice answered, gritty and alert. “This is Sergeant Mike Delgado.”

“Mike, it’s Rachel Mercer.”

A pause. Then he said, “You finally called.”

“I need you at the farm. Tonight. Bring your kit.”

“On my way.”

I hung up and looked at the letter again.

Richard Cross wanted a war. But he had made one crucial mistake.

He had threatened my daughter.

And I was no longer the woman who stayed silent to keep the peace.

Part 3 coming next.