The Unraveling Web: Cane’s Endgame and the Coming Storm
As the echoes of the French Riviera storm faded and the soaked fields around Genoa City began to dry, the real damage from Cane Ashby’s twisted orchestration was only beginning to surface. Somewhere between France and home, the spell was breaking, but not fast enough. While the guests of Cane’s lavish French estate gathered their things, made polite farewells, and tried to pretend they hadn’t all just spent the past few days trapped in an elaborate, gilded illusion, Adam Newman was already moving. Quite literally. Boots soaked, jacket torn, and resolve burning hotter than ever, Adam was walking along the twisted remnants of storm-destroyed train tracks, determined to reach Victor in person. He could have waited. He could have called. But he knew Cane. He knew how distraction worked. And he knew that what was unfolding back home in Genoa City couldn’t wait another moment.
By the time Adam reached Victor’s temporary suite, the old Titan was preparing for the return trip, still digesting the humiliation of Cane’s con, still brooding over what it meant. But Victor’s anger had not yet caught up to the scope of the threat. And that was what worried Adam most. So he laid it out quickly, breath ragged, clothes soaked. “Cane is using the party as misdirection. He never gave up on Chancellor. He’s moving while we’re stuck in Europe. And if we don’t stop him now, we’re going to lose a lot more than a company.” Victor stiffened, but said nothing. Adam knew what that meant. His father was processing, calculating, and somewhere deep inside that calculation was the fear that this time Victor had been played, and played well. But would it be too late?
Amanda’s Fury: A Dagger Aimed at Devon
Even as Adam sounded the alarm, the web Cane had spun back home was tightening. Devon Winters, far from being merely suspicious, was actively investigating. After returning to Chancellor-Winters from the so-called Dumas affair, Devon had felt it in his bones. Something was off. He didn’t trust Cane’s silence. He didn’t trust the party. He didn’t trust the timing. He had walked through that estate with one eye on the exits, waiting for a reveal that never came. And now back in Genoa City, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d all been pawns in a performance meant to keep them distracted while something vital was taken from under their noses.
So he turned to the one person he thought might still know Cane’s plans: Amanda Sinclair. But that conversation would not go the way Devon hoped. Amanda, already furious with him for reasons far deeper than Cane Ashby, met his questions with ice. She didn’t deny Cane’s motives. She didn’t even try to lie about the possibility that something darker was happening behind the scenes. Instead, she stared Devon down and answered with the kind of quiet, calculated bite that only someone who had been deeply hurt could deliver. “Even if what you’re asking is true, why would I ever tell you?” The sentence was a dagger laced with past betrayals and present rage. Because Amanda hadn’t forgotten what she had seen. She hadn’t forgotten walking into that living room and finding Devon, half-dressed, tangled with Abby Newman in a moment they thought was private, but had turned into a thunderclap of exposure. And worse, a shocked Chance Chancellor was there—Abby’s husband. Amanda had watched as the truth collapsed into the air like smoke, poisoning everything. And now Devon had the gall to stand before her, demanding clarity about another man’s motives when his own were no less cruel. It was galling, and Amanda wasn’t in the mood to entertain hypocrisy.
What made it worse was that Cane, manipulator that he was, had already laid the groundwork. He had given Amanda the power to silence Devon, to retaliate without lifting a finger. She didn’t owe Devon anything anymore. Not loyalty, not protection, not even information. And if Cane wanted to play puppet master, Amanda didn’t mind playing the puppet once in a while. If only to watch Devon squirm. “You’re worried Cane is distracting you?” she asked, voice sharp. “Maybe he is. But maybe your own guilt is doing a better job of it.” Devon left that conversation angrier, but not wiser. Amanda had blocked his access, and Cane’s own lawyer wasn’t offering anything either. His calls were being rerouted. Emails met with formal replies, but no substance. The wall was up, and Devon had no idea what was happening on the other side. All he knew was that something was coming, and Cane was the conductor.
Whispers of Betrayal: Kyle’s Shifting Loyalties and Cole’s Dark Fate
Meanwhile, back at Newman Enterprises, Victor was meeting with his legal team, finally treating the Cane situation as the high-level threat Adam had insisted it was. Michael Baldwin had been on the edge of being courted by Cane twice. But even Michael, skilled at riding the line between loyalty and self-preservation, was pulling back. Not because Cane had lost power, but because he was becoming unpredictable. When power becomes volatile, Michael knew to keep distance. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching closely.
At the Chancellor Mansion, whispers were forming. Staff had reported visitors at strange hours, coded deliveries, meetings held in rooms with curtains drawn. Cane had vanished from the public eye again, not out of weakness, but out of planning. Those who knew him best could sense it. He was preparing something. And what made it worse was that no one knew what it was. Not Devon, not Lily, not even Amanda. The mystery wasn’t just about Cane’s intentions. It was about who he had already recruited. Kyle Abbott may have been one of them. Diane Jenkins thought so. She had warned him more than once about Cane, about Audra Charles, about the danger of attaching yourself to people who wear too many masks. But Kyle had stopped listening. Something had shifted in him since the France trip. Maybe it was the feeling of being excluded from the bigger moves. Maybe it was Audra’s whispering voice filling his ear with promises of independence. Or maybe it was just the inevitable evolution of a man who had spent too long living in other people’s shadows. Kyle wanted something more. Cane seemed to offer that, and Diane was terrified of what it would cost him. She confronted him again that afternoon, face pale, eyes blazing. “Audra is using you,” she said. “Cane is using both of you.” But Kyle brushed her off. He was tired of being told what to do. He didn’t want to be saved. He wanted to choose, even if he chose wrong.
While all of this unfolded, Cane sat in silence behind his estate’s encrypted security systems, reading reports, watching encrypted feeds, logging interactions. He knew Devon was on to him. He knew Amanda had tipped her hand. He knew Adam had run to Victor. None of it surprised him. All of it was part of the plan because the real truth was this: Cane had never expected to reclaim Chancellor through a clean offer. That was the smoke. The fire had been burning elsewhere through trusts, holding companies, backdoor agreements already locked in motion. While everyone watched the party, the real game was unfolding in silence behind firewalls and names no one recognized.
But there was one part of his plan he couldn’t quite control: Lily. And it infuriated him. He had told Amanda he wanted her back. But that wasn’t just nostalgia. That was structure. That was legacy. That was symmetry. Cane didn’t just want Chancellor. He wanted the past to bow to him. He wanted the people who doubted him – Victor, Devon, Amanda, even Lily – to see that everything they had denied him, he now held in the palm of his hand. But Lily had changed. Amanda’s warning hadn’t been enough. Devon’s pleading didn’t move her. She had begun investigating on her own, and what she would soon discover through a series of confidential memos and buried legal transfers was that Cane was no longer circling Chancellor. He was about to own it, not through Newman, not through Winters, but through a shadow consortium built on everything they had missed while sipping wine in France. And the next time she looked into his eyes, it wouldn’t be as a former lover or a scorned business partner. It would be as a woman watching a man rewrite history and place himself at the center of it.
Cane Ashby had waited long enough. He had performed the charade, entertained the guests, faked the smiles, and extended the olive branches that no one genuinely wanted. The grand estate in France had served its purpose, just as he intended. Now that the masks had fallen and the alliances had begun to fracture, there was no more use for diplomacy. What remained was the reality of rejection, and Cane was finished pretending that he had moved on. Lily had made her choice again. And though she would never admit it aloud, the disdain in her eyes when she looked at him said more than words ever could. Cane had reached for her once more, not just as a woman, but as a symbol of everything he had built and lost, and she had crushed that hope beneath her heel with elegant precision. He had offered her redemption through reunion, and she had laughed in his face by kissing Damian Cain in plain view of the people he had gathered. If there had been a shred of restraint left in him, it had died in that moment. And now Cane no longer saw Lily as the exception. She was part of the system that had discarded him. And systems—corporate, familial, emotional—could be dismantled.
Clare’s Fragility and Cole’s Medical Mystery
Cane’s first targets would not be dramatic or reckless. He didn’t operate that way anymore. He had learned patience in exile. Instead, his vengeance would begin surgically. Chancellor was ripe for destabilization, especially with Winters stretching itself thin across too many portfolios. Devon, for all his pride and savvy, had left cracks—legal, financial, and emotional. And Amanda Sinclair might just be the lever Cane needed. She was angry, emboldened, and more disillusioned than she cared to admit. He could see it in her eyes when Devon tried to question her loyalty, when Abby’s betrayal still festered beneath the surface. Amanda might not want to destroy Devon, but she could certainly be tempted to wound him. And Cane would be there, gently fanning that fire, feeding her just enough truth to weaponize her instincts. He wouldn’t need to order her to strike, just give her the blade and remind her how deep Devon’s betrayal truly went.
Meanwhile, across town, a different kind of storm was quietly building. One born not from revenge, but from fragility. Clare Grace Newman had spent months clawing her way toward healing. Rebuilding a fractured identity with the cautious support of Victoria and the tenuous grace of the Newman name. But healing is not linear, and trauma doesn’t vanish because a last name changes. This week, everything began to crack again. The panic returned, unexpected, relentless. The suffocating grip of fear took hold of her in the quiet corners of the Newman Ranch, in the backseat of the car ride to the hospital, in the sterile hallways that carried too many echoes of abandonment. Clare couldn’t explain it to Victoria without falling apart. But Holden understood.
Holden Novak had arrived when no one else did. Not because he was instructed to, but because he saw her, understood her. He had watched the room, not just the people. He noticed Clare withdrawing before she even spoke, noticed her shaking hands long before she admitted the panic. And when it overwhelmed her, he didn’t ask questions. He simply guided her outside, grounding her with quiet words, calm presence, and no judgment. It was Holden, not a Newman, who helped Clare breathe again. And in that moment, something unspoken changed. A bond was sealed. Not in romance, not yet, but in dependence, trust. And that kind of connection would not go away easily. It would grow. Especially when Kyle Abbott, ever unpredictable, began to unravel again under Audra Charles’s manipulation. Clare would eventually have to choose whom she leaned on when the next storm came. And now, without even realizing it, she already had.
Back in Chicago, another chapter of the Newman saga was unfolding as Victoria and Clare returned to see Cole, who was now hospitalized and fighting what appeared to be Legionnaire’s disease. The call had come unexpectedly, the urgency in the nurse’s voice too haunting to ignore. Victoria had dropped everything. Clare, despite her rising anxiety, followed without hesitation. When they arrived, Cole’s condition had stabilized somewhat, but the emotional weight in the room was suffocating. He looked thinner, paler, his voice rough, but his eyes lit up when he saw them. He had feared he wouldn’t get the chance to see Clare again, to tell Victoria that no matter how complicated their lives had been, he had never stopped caring. It was Clare who stood closest to his bedside. Cole looked at her as if trying to memorize her face, desperate to anchor himself to something real. He apologized for his absence, for every moment of doubt that had been planted by the people who had tried to rewrite her origin story.
Victoria tried to hold it together, but the fragility in Cole’s expression chipped away at her defenses. She told him they weren’t going anywhere, that she and Clare were here now and they would stay as long as needed. Cole nodded, whispering, “I thought I was going to die before I ever got to say goodbye.” And yet beneath the grief was confusion because Legionnaire’s disease, while dangerous, was highly treatable. The statistics didn’t add up. Even Victoria, who had once accepted medical diagnosis at face value, found herself asking more questions than usual: Why had his condition escalated so quickly? Why had he been admitted without contacting them earlier? And why did the hospital staff seem evasive when she asked about his treatment timeline? It was Clare who finally voiced it softly to Holden in the hallway later, “Something feels wrong.” And she was right. Because buried in the hospital records were discrepancies. Dates that didn’t match. Medications that had been administered too early or not at all. Someone had either been careless or manipulative. Either way, it meant that Cole’s illness may not have been as natural as everyone believed. And if that was the case, someone had wanted him isolated, weak, potentially silenced.
Back in Genoa City, as Victoria began making phone calls and Clare buried herself in online medical journals, Cane Ashby was already preparing his next step. He had heard whispers of Cole’s condition through a private contact and smiled—not at the illness, but at the opportunity it presented. Newman Enterprises was distracted. The Winters family was imploding. Jack Abbott was divided between business and family, unsure whether to trust Kyle anymore. And Amanda Sinclair, already emotionally untethered, had begun revisiting some of Cane’s private files at his invitation—not to betray anyone yet, but just to understand what really happened. And still, Lily remained quiet, watching, processing. She had always been the calm before the storm. But Cane had a feeling she wasn’t going to stay silent much longer. Because the next move he made wouldn’t just challenge Chancellor or Winters. It would expose things buried for decades. It would make her question whether she had ever truly known him or herself. The question wasn’t whether Cane would retaliate. It was how many people would fall when he did, and whether any of them would recover.
Will Cole’s mysterious illness prove to be a sinister plot, pushing Clare into a dangerous investigation with Holden? Can Lily uncover Cane’s ultimate scheme before it’s too late for Chancellor-Winters? And as JT Hellstrom’s influence becomes clearer, who among Genoa City’s elite will be the next to fall in this brutal war for power and revenge?
The 10 Greatest Supercars of the Last 80 Years Are Parked at the Petersen
The Petersen Automotive Museum packs ‘em in, minus the Koenigseggs, Paganis and anything that hasn’t seen production yet.
Petersen Automotive Museum
Almost throughout automotive history there has been the specter of the unattainable dream car. A vehicle so pure, so powerful, so fast, that it would endow its owner with seemingly super powers, either to foil a rival or to attract a date. Usually many dates. In fact, the dates might be the whole point of all of these. Regardless, they are each, in their own decades, the ultimate wheeled fantasy, and the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles has corralled over 25 of them, from the ancient and spindly 1913 Mercer to the McLaren F1. There are more than 25 in the exhibit, and a few more than 25 here. Click on and be amazed at what once was. Then get thee to the Petersen’s third floor, where all 25+ cars are on display. Or will be as soon as the museum reopens, which should be soon, they tell us. Actual opening date depends on government regulations, so keep an eyeball on www.petersen.org.
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1913 Mercer Type 35-J Raceabout
Petersen Automotive Museum
The supercar class didn’t begin with the Lamborghini Countach, ya know. There were supercars more than 100 years ago. This 1913 Mercer Type 35-J Raceabout ruled the road in the Brass Era. It was the fastest sports car of its day, and still a heckuva a lot of fun to drive, according to those who have driven it. Before this one came to the Petersen’s collection it belonged to the great Phil Hill.
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1924 Mercedes 28/95 Targa Florio
Petersen Automotive Museum
The American Mercedes Company of New York built this car to celebrate the company’s Targa Florio win in 1921, according to the Petersen’s archives. It was powered by a massive, even by today’s standards, 94-hp 7.2-liter straight six. Its secret weapon was that it had drum brakes on all four wheels, a rarity in 1923.
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1933 Duesenberg Model SJ Convertible Coupe Body by Murphy
Petersen Automotive Museum
Imagine a road car in 1933 that could go 150 mph. Imagine a 400-hp road car in 1933. Tell me Duesenbergs weren’t supercars. This Duesenberg was powered by a supercharged 7.0-liter straight eight that had double overhead cams and four valves per cylinder. All this in 1933! The car was so fast that the Duesenberg ads claimed it could only be passed “…if the owner let it be passed.” Like all Dueseys, the body was coach-built, this one by Murphy in Pasadena, Calif.
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1938 Delahaye Type 145 Coupe by Chapron
Petersen Automotive Museum
Like many cars on our supercar list, this Delahaye was based on a race car, the V12-powered Type 145 that raced in Grands Prix across Europe. This one was one of four ordered by pioneering female racer and pre-war Grand Prix team owner Lucy Schell. Schell’s 145s not only won the Prix du Million driven by Rene Dreyfus, but beat the German Mercedes team at other races. After its racing career, this car was rebodied by Chapron and spent a glorious retirement that continues to this day, at the Petersen.
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1952 Ferrari 212/225 Barchetta Inter Spyder Barchetta
Petersen Automotive Museum
The Inter was one of the earliest Ferraris ever made, coming just four years after the birth of the company. It was powered by a 2.7-liter V12 making 210 hp and was raced successfully throughout Europe. This particular model was ordered by no less an industry luminary than Henry Ford II, who parked it in the Ford Styling Dome to inspire the Thunderbird designers. It worked, as you can see in the T-Bird’s egg-crate grille, hood scoop and overall proportions. Plus, Hank the Deuce got to drive it around Dearborn and Grosse Point, possibly inspiring his actions in Ford v Ferrari. Who knows?
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1955 Mercedes 300SL Gullwing
Petersen Automotive Museum
The 1954-57 Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing is one of the all-time great classic cars even today, but when it was new, it was also the fastest car in the world, able to hit a top speed of 163 mph. Not a lot of cars can go that fast even today. The Gullwing’s 3.0-liter straight six made 220 hp thanks to a single overhead cam and fuel injection from a Messerschmidt 109. Originally designed for road racing, among its famous runs was La Carrera Panamericana, the SL in the name stands for super leicht, or super light.
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1968 Lamborghini Miura
Petersen Automotive Museum
If you want to trace the history of the modern supercar, you would likely end right here, with the 1966 introduction of the Lamborghini Miura. It was remarkable not only for the Marcello Gandini-designed body, but for the amazing feat of cramming a V12 engine and transmission sideways behind the two seats. As such, it was the first successful mass-produced supercar, and the world has never been the same.
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1074 Lancia Stratos
Petersen Automotive Museum
If the Miura pioneered the mid-engine supercar, the Lancia Stratos took it on the road and won races. And it didn’t even need pavement. The Stratos won the World Rally Championship in 1974, ’75 and ’76, among other victories. The key was another transverse-mounted engine in another Marcello Gandini-designed body. Gandini did this one between penning the Miura and the Countach. Instead of a V12, the Stratos used the 2.4-liter V6 from the Ferrari Dino. Then Sandro Munari went out and won everything he entered. The car was competitive even into the ’80s in the hands of privateers.
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1981 BMW M1
Petersen Automotive Museum
The M1 was supposed to be BMW’s ultimate racing machine, but the rules for the class it was to enter changed, the car didn’t really race, and now it sits as the thing people point to during bar arguments to say, “The the late-’70s/early ’80s weren’t all bad, you had the M1!’ Designed by Giugiaro, the M1 was to be built by Lamborghini. But Lamborghini had more trouble than it could handle so the job was turned over to a complex line of builders and, well, the whole thing turned into a kerfuffel. Only 430 were ever made. Too bad, the M1 coulda been something, maybe, who knows?
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