I came back from the restroom and found my best friend sitting on my husband’s lap in the middle of a crowded birthday dinner.

The private elevator opened directly into the gilded foyer of the Drake Hotel’s Presidential Suite at precisely eight o'clock. The scent of aged scotch and expensive cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, mingling with the sickeningly familiar sweet gardenia perfume that had once hovered over our table at the Oakridge Club.

Arthur Vance sat in a velvet wingback chair near the grand fireplace, an eighty-year-old patriarch with hollow cheeks and the calculating eyes of a vulture. Standing beside the grand piano, dressed in an extravagant backless emerald gown—as if this were a coronation—was Victoria.

When she saw David and me walk in, her face twisted into a smug, venomous grin. She genuinely believed she had fractured us. She thought the photograph had shattered my sovereign poise and dragged me down to her level.

“Claire,” Victoria purred, raising a champagne flute in mock salute. “I’m surprised you could bear to stand next to him after Lake Geneva. Tell me, did you ask him about the dock at sunset? Or did you just pretend it never happened, like you pretend everything else?”

David took a step forward, his fists clenching, but I laid a single, calm hand on his forearm. He stopped immediately, yielding the floor to me.

“Arthur,” I said, ignoring Victoria as completely as if she were a smudge of dirt on the Persian rug. “You asked for sixty million dollars to surrender the legacy debt notes and suppress Miss Ross’s sworn affidavit.”

Arthur Vance chuckled dryly, swirling his scotch. “Always practical, Claire. David always was an emotional boy, but you... you have blood of ice. Yes. Sixty million wire-transferred to my account in Vaduz by midnight, and Miss Ross takes her memories to London. Refuse, and tomorrow morning every tabloid from Chicago to New York receives the affidavit and the timeline of David’s secret rendezvous.”

“It’s a very compelling narrative, Arthur,” I said, unzipping my leather portfolio and extracting a slim manila folder. “There’s only one structural flaw.”

Victoria scoffed, taking a sip of champagne. “Keep drafting your blueprints, Claire. You can’t design your way out of reality. David wanted me. He always wanted me. You were just the safe, boring choice his father approved of!”

I finally turned my head and looked directly into Victoria’s feverish, desperate eyes.

“You left an audio recording device disguised as a brooch in Eleanor’s gift box this afternoon, didn't you, Victoria?” I asked softly.