I died giving birth to my twins, and while doctors shocked my heart back into rhythm

Three months passed.

The storm that had consumed the city finally settled into peace. Flynn Vance was formally convicted on all counts and transferred to the maximum-security state penitentiary to serve a twenty-eight-year sentence without the possibility of parole. Chloe Sterling was sentenced to twelve years for criminal conspiracy and financial fraud, her once-glamorous life permanently extinguished behind barbed-wire fences.

At Hart Crest, peace had returned.

Leo and Maya were thriving. At one hundred days old, their chubby cheeks were flushed with health. Leo had his mother's sharp, intelligent dark eyes, while Maya had inherited a bright, joyful smile that lit up every room.

I spent my mornings running Hart Enterprises from the estate's sunroom, signing multi-million-dollar philanthropic initiatives to build state-of-the-art neonatal intensive care units across the country, ensuring no mother or child would ever be abandoned the way we had been.

It was an idyllic afternoon. The garden was in full bloom with white hydrangeas and English roses.

Jonathan walked into the garden terrace, holding an antique silver tray. On the tray sat an unsealed, unmarked envelope made of thick, heavy parchment.

"What is that, Jonathan?" I asked, adjusting the sunshade over Maya’s bassinet.

"It arrived by courier from Switzerland, Madam Claire," Jonathan said, his expression unusually grave. "It bypassed the post office entirely. It was delivered directly to our overseas family office in Zurich with instructions that it only be opened by you."

I frowned slightly, taking the heavy envelope. There was no stamp, no return address—only a wax seal stamped with an intricate crest: a silver falcon clutching a broken dagger.

My fingers froze against the wax.

That crest hadn't been seen in twenty-five years. It belonged to the Blackwood syndicate—the ruthless European banking consortium that had once waged a bloody corporate war against my late father before vanishing into the shadows of private European finance.

I broke the seal and pulled out the single sheet of parchment.

The handwriting was written in elegant, emerald-green ink.

*"To Claire Hart,*

*Congratulations on surviving the delivery room and disposing of your pathetic husband. Flynn Vance was an insignificant pawn, useful only for testing whether the Hart bloodline had grown soft over the years.*

*You proved that you still possess your father's ruthless teeth. That pleases us.*

*Now that the garbage has been cleared from your house, the real game begins. Your father died believing he had hidden the bearer shares of the Sovereign Trust from us. He thought he took the secret to his grave.*

*He was wrong. Look at your son’s birth certificate, Claire. Look at the registration number stamped beneath your signature.*

*We are coming to collect what was promised.*