I caught my husband kissing my older sister in my mother’s kitchen while twenty people celebrated my father’s sixty-fifth birthday in the next room. / Chapter 44 / 120

Chapter 44 - The Lion's Den

The autumn fog draped heavily over the spire towers of Zurich as our black sedan wound its way up the Adlisberg hill toward the Grand Hotel Dolder.

Through the tinted glass, the city below looked like a gleaming fortress of gold and ancient stone, untroubled by the misery it financed across the globe. Liam sat beside me, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal tuxedo that concealed a ceramic composite pistol at his ribs and two encrypted military-grade data drives in his cuffs.

I wore a gown of midnight blue silk, high-necked and sleeveless, with no jewelry except my mother’s gold ring. My hair was swept into a severe chignon. I was no longer the heartbroken wife who had stood in tears while her sister and husband intertwined their lives behind her back. I was the executioner of their past.

"Our contacts in Interpol are on standby across the border in Austria," Liam said quietly, checking the synchronization on his wristwatch. "The moment we breach Margarethe’s private suite, the data uplink will transmit the unencrypted ledgers of the Sovereign Trust directly to the Swiss Banking Ombudsman and the Hague. But for that uplink to work, Maya, you have to keep Margarethe talking for at least six minutes."

"And Richard?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. "What do I do when he speaks?"

"Do whatever your heart tells you," Liam said softly, reaching over and briefly squeezing my hand. "Just remember: he is nothing more than a parasite clinging to a dying queen."

The car stopped under the grand illuminated portico. Liveried attendants opened the doors. The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Hotel blazed with warm light, reflecting off marble floors where the wealthiest elites of Europe sipped champagne, completely oblivious that a war was about to culminate beneath their feet.

We walked into the ballroom where Margarethe von Berg was hosting the annual Winter Solstice Gala for international trade sovereigns. As we stepped through the gilded archway, the soft chamber orchestra music seemed to fade into a hollow hum.

At the far end of the room, standing beside a fountain of sculpted ice, was Richard.

He looked thinner, a faint surgical scar tracing along the edge of his jawline where the marina explosion had kissed his skin. He held a glass of Dom Pérignon, chatting smoothly with a Swiss parliamentarian.

Then, his eyes met mine.