My husband walked into our dining room with his hand around another woman’s waist while

The silence in the penthouse stretched so taut that the steady ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like a countdown to an explosion.

Christian Laurent smiled—a thin, practiced smile that didn't reach his cold blue eyes. He leaned casually on his cane, the silver wolf head resting under his gloved palm.

“You seem unimpressed,” Laurent noted smoothly. “Perhaps you do not yet comprehend the magnitude of the name you carry. Or perhaps you simply do not understand the danger your newborn child is in.”

The moment the word *child* left his lips, Mason moved with terrifying speed.

Before Laurent could blink, Mason had closed the distance, grabbed the man by the silk lapels of his three-piece suit, and slammed him hard against the paneled wall. The ebony cane clattered across the marble floor.

“Say one more word about Clara,” Mason hissed, his voice dangerously low, “and you won’t leave Boston on a private jet. You’ll leave in a wooden crate.”

Laurent gasped for air, his face reddening, but the insolent smirk never fully left his mouth. “Touch me... and you declare war on the Montmirail maritime consortium, Mr. Vance. You are a clever corporate lawyer, but you are playing in a sandbox compared to the families who funded the Napoleonic wars.”

“Mason,” I called out calmly. “Let him go.”

Mason held the man pinned for two more agonizing seconds, ensuring Laurent felt the steel in his grip, before releasing him with a sharp shove. Laurent straightened his tie, breathing heavily, though his eyes remained fixated on me.

“You came here offering a buyout,” I said, walking slowly toward him until I stood just inches away. “How much did Grant Sterling’s father get paid to keep me in the dark? Five million? Ten?”

Laurent smoothed his coat, picking up his cane with a calm flick of his wrist. “The Sterlings were paid forty million dollars over thirty years to integrate you into their family, break your independent spirit, and ensure no legitimate Vance heir ever looked across the ocean. Grant was a fool who rushed the timeline. He let his mistresses and his pathetic vanity ruin an arrangement that was supposed to last until your natural death.”

A sick wave of nausea churned in my stomach. Grant’s mother, Evelyn Sterling, had played the role of the haughty Boston socialite, sneering at my lineage, while all along her entire lifestyle was subsidized by blood money meant to keep me caged.

“Why now?” I demanded. “Arthur Sterling is behind bars. Grant is ruined. Why show your face today?”

“Because Baron Henri de Montmirail—your grandfather—suffered a massive stroke forty-eight hours ago,” Laurent said, his tone dropping into something far more sinister. “The Swiss courts require an undisputed heir to unlock the family’s private maritime trust. If you are dead or legally estranged, the entire seven-billion-dollar holding passes to the Laurent syndicate. To me.”

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a single black titanium bank card, sliding it onto the console table.

“Two hundred million dollars,” Laurent said. “Tax-free. Deposited in the Cayman Islands. Sign a formal renunciation of the Montmirail name, take your bastard child and your lover, and disappear to South America. Refuse... and the accidents that befell your mother will simply repeat themselves.”

I looked at the black card, then lifted my gaze to meet Laurent’s unblinking eyes.

Without a word, I picked up the card, walked over to the fireplace where low embers glowed, and tossed it directly into the grate. The titanium sizzled against the white-hot coals.

“Tell my grandfather I don’t want his money,” I said, every syllable laced with steel. “I am coming to Geneva to take his empire. And the first thing I will do with it is destroy you.”

Laurent’s expression hardened into pure malice. “A brave girl. Just like your mother, Julianne. She said the exact same words three days before her yacht went down in the Mediterranean.”

He turned on his heel and walked toward the elevator. As the doors slid shut, his final words echoed through the room: