My husband slapped me in front of his mother because I tried to take our five-year-old daughter to the hospital with a 104°F fever.

Three days after the boardroom coup, the downfall of the Thorne family had become the biggest scandal in the state.

Agnes Thorne’s high-society life was crumbling in real time. Her credit cards were declined at her favorite hair salon in Manhattan; her luxury sports car was repossessed from her sister's driveway in Greenwich; and news outlets published photographs of her fleeing a high-end restaurant through the kitchen doors to avoid process servers attempting to deliver subpoenas for the IRS investigation.

Meanwhile, Julian was staying in a dingy, seventy-dollar-a-night motel on the outskirts of the city, hiding from both the press and the process servers. His bank accounts were frozen, his high-powered defense attorneys had dropped him after his credit cards failed to clear, and his high-society friends had blocked his number.

I was back at the Mercer Estate—my home.

The iron gates were locked, guarded twenty-four hours a day by a private security team. The house had been scrubbed clean of every trace of Agnes and Julian. Their clothes, their portraits, their expensive leather furniture—everything they had brought into the house had been removed and shipped to a climate-controlled storage facility, the key to which had been mailed to Julian’s public defender.

Lily was fully recovered, her cheeks pink and healthy again. She was sitting on the sun porch, painting watercolor flowers with my father, her laughter echoing through the wide hallways that had once been so quiet and tense.

I sat in my mother's old study, reviewing the financial reports for Thorne Enterprises—which we were in the process of rebranding as Mercer-Thorne Logistics—when Arthur Vance walked into the room.

"Evelyn," Arthur said, holding a sleek black laptop under his arm. "We have a situation."

I raised an eyebrow, setting my pen down. "What kind of situation?"

"Julian’s criminal defense attorney just contacted the DA's office," Arthur explained, opening the laptop and turning the screen toward me. "They are attempting to negotiate a plea deal for the assault and fraud charges. But they are offering something in exchange."

"What could Julian possibly have to offer?" I asked bitterly.

"Information," Arthur said gravely. "Julian claims that four years ago, before your mother passed away, Agnes collaborated with an offshore corporate restructuring firm to alter the original terms of your mother’s healthcare trust. He claims they manipulated her medical power of attorney while she was hospitalized."

My blood ran cold. The ambient noise of Lily laughing in the sunroom faded away, replaced by a sudden, sharp ringing in my ears.

My mother had died four years ago from a sudden, aggressive illness. At the time, I was so blinded by grief and so reliant on Julian and Agnes for emotional support that I had accepted everything they told me about her estate, her final medical care, and the distribution of her personal assets.

"What are you saying, Arthur?" I whispered, my voice trembling for the first time in days.

"I'm saying," Arthur said, his eyes darkening, "that Agnes didn't just steal from the Mercer trust after your mother died. She may have deliberately tampered with your mother's care to accelerate her passing so that Julian could gain access to the property sooner."

A cold, terrifying fury, ten times hotter than the anger I had felt when Julian slapped me, erupted deep inside my chest.

"Show me the files," I commanded, standing up so fast my chair rolled back against the mahogany bookcase.

"We don't have the primary documents yet," Arthur admitted. "Julian kept them in a private, encrypted digital vault stored on a physical flash drive. He claims the flash drive is hidden inside a safety deposit box at First National Bank—a box registered under his mother’s maiden name."

"He's using it as leverage," I realized instantly. "He wants the assault charges dropped and his frozen accounts released in exchange for the drive."

"Precisely," Arthur nodded. "His attorney stated that if you don't agree to the plea bargain by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon, Julian will destroy the encryption key, and the evidence regarding your mother’s trust manipulation will be lost forever."

I walked over to the window overlooking the grand gardens. Out on the lawn, my father was holding Lily’s hand, teaching her how to plant tulip bulbs in the damp soil.

Julian thought he was playing chess. He thought he could use my mother’s memory to blackmail me back into submission, using his old tricks of manipulation and emotional cruelty.

He didn't realize that I wasn't the broken, grieving girl he had married five years ago.

"Arthur," I said, turning back to him, my voice as hard as flint. "Contact the district attorney. Tell them we refuse the plea bargain."

Arthur looked surprised. "Evelyn, if Julian destroys that drive—"

"Julian won't destroy that drive," I interrupted, a cold smile touching my lips. "A parasite like Julian never destroys his only leverage. He’s terrified, he’s broke, and he’s desperate. He’s going to try to retrieve that drive himself so he can sell it to the highest bidder."

"And how do you propose we catch him?" Arthur asked.