The Hawthorne mansion had never felt so empty. Grayson, Nash, Jameson, and Xander moved through the echoing halls, their footsteps loud in the silence. They had come not for fortune—they already knew the letter would settle that—but because they needed Elisabeth.

Months had passed since Elisabeth had left Hawthorne House at eighteen. Six months after stepping into the sprawling estate filled with riddles and fortune, she had boarded a plane to LA, following her father’s path (federal agent) —a man who had once raced in the streets with Dom Toretto, a bond that had made Elisabeth almost family to the legendary crew. She had gone undercover with Brian and Toretto, dismantling Braga’s operations, and then, like a shadow, she had moved to Brazil, joining Dom’s crew in the chaos of Reyes’ cartel. Each mission had honed her, each risk sharpened her instincts.

Alissa handed them an envelope, her expression unreadable. Grayson broke the seal and read aloud:

As the sole heir to the Hawthorne estate, I was entrusted with resources and responsibilities of considerable magnitude. After careful deliberation, I have chosen to implement a distribution that reflects both fairness and finality.

Effective immediately, a transfer of twelve billion dollars has been made to Nash Hawthorne, Grayson Hawthorne, Jameson Hawthorne, and Xander Hawthorne, respectively. This amount constitutes an equal division of the inheritance originally designated to me. The decision has been executed in full and will not be revisited or revised.

Cold. Final. Unapologetic.

Grayson. He remembered her leaving, six months after moving into Hawthorne House, boarding a plane to Houston to follow in her father’s footsteps. That path had led her straight into Dom Toretto’s orbit, racing, planning, surviving—everything he hadn’t known she was capable of.

They searched records, questioned staff, and pieced together the fragments of her trail. Every clue pointed toward the Canary Islands, where Dom’s crew had settled after Brazil: Brian, Mia, Elena, and even Toretto himself. She was there, somewhere, between the cliffs and winding roads, between sun and ocean.

Grayson remembered the wine cellar, the stolen kiss before reality had torn them apart. That memory guided him, a tether he refused to let break.

Hours later, winding along the cliffs, engines humming faintly in garages below, he saw her: black Ford mustang ‘21, hair whipping in the wind, eyes scanning the horizon with deadly precision. Elisabeth, every bit as commanding and untouchable as he remembered.

He approached her. “It wasn’t hard to find you.”