The day I carried my three-year-old daughter’s ashes out of the hospital was the day my husband finally decided to answer my calls

I didn’t flinch. I sat upright in Brendan’s leather executive chair, my hand resting calmly on the flash drive plugged into the side of the terminal.

"Doing your job, Ximena?" I asked, my voice chillingly level. "Is murder part of an executive assistant's compensation package now?"

Ximena walked over to the desk, her expression unreadable. "I followed orders from the chief executive officer. You think I wanted that little girl to die? I spent six months begging Brendan to clean up his books. But Samantha had him wrapped around her finger. Every time Brendan tried to back out of their offshore bets, Samantha threatened to leak his personal fraud to the Sterling board."

"And so you decided Chloe was the acceptable casualty?"

"I decided that my pension and my freedom were more important than a marriage that was already dead," Ximena said coldly. "Give me the flash drive, Evelyn. Brendan will be home in an hour. If he finds you with that data, he won't send you to Switzerland. He’ll make sure you disappear completely."

I smiled—a slow, terrifying smile that caused Ximena’s cold facade to waver for the first time.

"You really should have checked my background before you joined this family circus, Ximena," I said softly.

"What are you talking about?"

"You think this flash drive is local storage?" I pulled up a secondary screen. "Marcus Vance has been monitoring this terminal in real-time via an encrypted peer-to-peer relay. The moment I opened that email thread, full unredacted copies were mirrored to three separate servers: the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Department of Justice, and the personal inbox of Arthur Sterling, the Chairman of Sterling Capital."

Ximena’s face drained of every drop of color. Her hands began to tremble, the unlit cigarette slipping from her fingers and hitting the Persian rug.

"You... you didn't," she stammered, backing toward the door. "You’re bluffing. You wouldn't destroy Brendan. You'd lose everything! The estate, the trust, the settlement—"

"I lost everything the second I carried my daughter out of Saint Jude’s in a ceramic box," I roared, rising from the chair with an authority that pinned her against the wall. "You think I give a damn about this house? About this money? About Brendan Fairchild’s pathetic name?"

I walked toward her, each step measured and deliberate.

"At nine o'clock tomorrow morning, Chloe’s memorial service begins at Holy Trinity Cathedral. The entire financial elite of this city will be there. Arthur Sterling will be there. The national press will be there."

I leaned in, looking directly into Ximena’s panicked eyes. "You have exactly eight hours to decide whether you want to be listed as a co-conspirator in an aggravated corporate manslaughter indictment, or whether you want to turn state's witness against Brendan and Samantha. Marcus Vance has already drafted your immunity proffer. If you sign it before sunrise, you stay out of prison. If you don't, I will personally ensure that your cell has no windows."

Ximena swallowed hard, her chest heaving. "Evelyn... please. Samantha told me Brendan would protect us."

"Samantha doesn't even know how to protect herself," I whispered. "Call Marcus. The number is on the desk. You have until dawn."