Two days after I nearly died giving birth to our premature twins,

I didn't flinch. I slowly released Julian’s hand and stood up. “What has she done?”

“She served four months in county jail for her role in the escrow fraud,” Eleanor explained, sitting down at the iron table. “She gave birth to Harrison Croft’s child while in custody. Croft completely abandoned her, moved his firm to London, and secured a foreign custody order barring her from ever seeing the child due to her criminal convictions.”

“And now she’s targeting us?” I asked.

“She’s outside the front gate,” Eleanor said grimly. “She called every local news station in Dutchess County, claiming she has 'bombshell evidence' that Dominic Bennett’s prosecution was a manufactured political hit job orchestrated by Arthur Vance to silence a whistleblower. She’s threatening to release fabricated diaries claiming you abused Dominic behind closed doors.”

I looked at Julian. He stood up beside me, his jaw tight with righteous anger. “I’ll call the state police. We can have her arrested for harassment within ten minutes.”

“No,” I said calmly. “If we have her arrested, the tabloids will report that the Vance family used state power to silence a desperate mother. She wants a scene. She wants a settlement check to go away.”

I turned to Eleanor. “Is Grandfather in the library?”

“Yes. He’s with Marcus Reed.”

“Good,” I said, smoothing down the fabric of my linen sundress. “Bring Natalie to the gatehouse. Let the press cameras stay on the road. It’s time to bury this ghost once and for all.”

Ten minutes later, I walked into the stone gatehouse at the entrance of the estate.

Natalie stood there, pacing like a caged fox. She looked weathered, hollow, and ragged. The cheap, predatory glamour she had once wielded had curdled into bitter, desperate resentment. When the door opened and I walked in, flanked by two security officers, she sneered.

“Look who decided to grace me with her presence,” Natalie spat, crossing her arms. “The high and mighty Audrey Vance. Living like a royal while Dominic rots in prison and I don't even have enough money to pay rent on a basement studio in Queens!”

“You made your choices, Natalie,” I said, stopping behind the oak counter.

“I was used!” she screamed. “Dominic used me! Harrison Croft used me! And your family destroyed everything I had! You think people won't believe my story? A billionaire heiress who kept her identity secret to trap a middle-class entrepreneur, then had her grandfather’s judges throw him in a cage when he tried to divorce her? The internet will eat it alive, Audrey! Give me five million dollars, or I start doing podcast interviews tomorrow morning!”

I didn't answer. I reached into my folder and pulled out a digital audio recorder, setting it on the counter.

I pressed *play*.

Dominic’s voice filled the room, crackling through the small speaker:

*“...I don't give a damn about Natalie or her brat, Finch. The kid isn't mine anyway. She’s an escort who got lucky with a forged notary stamp. Once I get Audrey’s trust funds liquid, I’m wiring six million to Switzerland, taking the private jet out of Teterboro, and leaving Natalie holding the bag for the shell companies. If she complains, I’ll tell the feds she was the mastermind behind the whole embezzlement scheme...”*

The audio cut off.

Natalie’s jaw dropped. The color drained from her face until she looked like a corpse. “Where... where did you get that?”

“Dominic’s office had an automated security recording system installed on his private executive lines,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Paid for by Bennett Global. It recorded every conversation he had for eighteen months. We handed thousands of hours over to the federal prosecutors, but Eleanor kept the personal tapes.”

I leaned forward, looking into her terrified, trembling eyes.

“You came here today to blackmail me, Natalie,” I said. “Extortion is a class C felony in the state of New York. There are two Dutchess County sheriff deputies standing outside that door right now, recording this entire conversation through the gatehouse intercom.”

Natalie let out a strangled whimper, backing away from the counter until her shoulders hit the wall.

“I don't hate you, Natalie,” I said, and to my own surprise, it was the absolute truth. “I look at you and I see a woman who sold her dignity, her motherhood, and her future for scraps from a man who planned to feed her to the wolves. You aren't my enemy. You are simply the wreckage Dominic Bennett left behind.”

I stepped toward the door, then paused, looking back over my shoulder.

“If you leave right now,” I told her, “I won't press extortion charges. The foundation will pay for six months of transitional housing and vocational training for you in upstate New York, on one condition: you never speak my name, my children’s names, or Dominic’s name again. If you reject that offer, the deputies will walk in, handcuff you, and you will join Dominic in prison before dinner.”

Natalie sank slowly down the wall, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with silent, defeated sobs.

“Take the deal,” she whispered into the empty air. “I take the deal.”