Page 25 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

Winston.

It had to be Winston.

There was no other explanation. No other possibility that made sense.

Only four people in the world knew about that vault.

Priest was locked up somewhere—Winston had made sure of that. He was leverage, a chess piece my father had removed from the board to keep me in line.

Kaisen was too fucking stupid to tell anyone. He might be obsessed with Truth, might be willing to betray me in a dozen different ways, but he wasn’t suicidal. Telling someone outside the family about the vault would be signing his own death warrant, and Kaisen—for all his faults—had a strong sense of self-preservation.

That left Winston.

The man who’d built this empire on blood and manipulation. The man who’d taught me that loyalty was currency and betrayal was death. The man who’d looked me in the eye and told me that family came first, always, no matter what.

And now he’d fucked us.

Millions. Gone.

The staff at the vault—dead. Executed. Left as a message.

I could feel it in my bones, in the marrow-deep certainty that only came when you knew someone well enough to predict their moves. Winston had done this.

The rage burned hotter, spreading through my veins like poison.

I was going to confront him. I was going to make him admit it. And then⁠—

My phone rang, the sound cutting through the silence of the truck’s cabin.

I glanced at the screen mounted on the dashboard.

Unknown Number.

I almost didn’t answer. Almost let it go to voicemail because I didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone else’s bullshit right now.

But something made me hit the answer button.

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Landry?” The voice on the other end was professional, clipped. Female. “This is Monica Chen from American Express Fraud Prevention. I’m calling regarding some unusual activity on your Black Card ending in 4738.”

I frowned, my grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly.

“What kind of activity?”

“We’ve detected several charges within the past few hours that fall outside your typical spending patterns. The charges originated from New Orleans—specifically, Tulane Medical Center and the Bursar’s Office at Loyola University.”

My frown deepened.

Tulane Medical Center. Loyola University.

And then it clicked.

Truth.

“Can you confirm whether you authorized these transactions, Mr. Landry? If not, we can freeze the card immediately and⁠—”

“I authorized them.”