"My husband called at 11:07 P.M. asking what time our daughter's funeral was—while she was still alive in the ICU."

Trevor was thirty-four years old, wearing a crisp designer dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sipping twenty-year-old scotch from a crystal glass. Beside him on the velvet sofa sat Victoria Vance—no relation to my family, but the thirty-year-old Chief Financial Officer of Weston Maritime, with whom Trevor had been having a secret, eighteen-month affair.

"Did the hospital confirm her cardiac arrest yet, Trevor?" Victoria asked smoothly, adjusting her diamond bracelet as she checked her tablet screen.

"Not yet," Trevor smirked, swirling his scotch glass with arrogant indifference. "Hannah was screaming in the hallway when I called her. She's hysterical, useless, and completely crushed. By tomorrow morning, the doctors will declare Emma suffered acute respiratory failure from her asthma complications."

He leaned back against the plush velvet cushions, a cruel, greedy smile touching his lips.

"Three million dollars from the Prudential policy, plus the two million from the secondary corporate trust," Trevor bragged softly. "We clear the West Side harbor debt, move to Miami by next month, and leave Hannah with the hospital bills."

BOOM!

The heavy double mahogany doors of the penthouse foyer didn't just open—they were blown inward by a hydraulic breaching charge, sending sharp wood splinters and dust billowing through the grand living room.

Victoria shrieked in terror, dropping her crystal glass onto the hardwood floorboards, where it shattered into a hundred sparkling shards.

"WHAT THE HELL—?!" Trevor screamed, jumping up from the sofa, his face flushed with unhinged rage as he backed toward the fireplace.

Stepping through the smoke, wearing an immaculate dark wool coat over a tailored suit, his posture broad, tall, six-foot-three, and sovereign, was my father, Arthur Vance.

And walking directly beside his right shoulder, wearing a simple dark dress, her posture straight as iron, her hazel eyes holding zero fear, zero bitterness, and zero weakness, was me.

Behind us stood six broad-shouldered security operators clad in dark tactical gear, led by my father's chief enforcer, Marco.