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Her jaw tightened. She swiped a thumb over the screen, letting her voice slip effortlessly into a detached baritone.

"Tell me the Hudson deal is signed, Victoria," Harrison barked. His voice was gravel and sandpaper. It carried the impatient weight of a man who believed the world existed solely to cater to his schedule.

"The wire transfer cleared thirty minutes ago," Victoria replied, her eyes tracking across the spreadsheet glowing on her monitor. "We own the building."

"Good. You’ll need to fly to Chicago next week. The commercial division there is bleeding money. I need you to go in and cut the dead weight. No severance packages."

"Fine," Victoria said.

"You're the only one in this firm who actually understands how to close. Do whatever needs to be done."

The line went dead. Victoria tossed the phone onto the desk.

Harrison thought Victoria was his obedient soldier. He thought the decades of verbal abuse and psychological leveraging had worked, shaping her into the ultimate weapon for his empire. He had no idea she was simply running down the clock.

A little less than nine years ago, when a thirty-two-year-old Victoria received a massive buyout offer from a competitor, Harrison had panicked. Terrified his empire would collapse without her, he had locked her in with golden handcuffs. He offered her a thirty percent equity stake in the firm, tied to an ironclad vesting clause. If she walked away a single day early, she forfeited everything.

He believed a decade of captivity had broken her spirit. He forgot that the ten-year mark expired in exactly eighteen months.

She had no interest in elaborate revenge. She just wanted out. She had spent the last year quietly ensuring that when her equity finally vested, her exit would be airtight. Once the payout cleared, she would take her millions, walk out of the glass doors, and sever every tie to the Sterling name. She just needed to survive the next year and a half. She would play the game, smile at the board meetings, and nod at his tyrannical demands. Then, she would leave him and never look back.

She reached out to power down her laptop. Before her finger could hit the key, the unlisted landline on the corner of the desk rang.

That number was guarded by a labyrinth of corporate firewalls. She frowned, leaning over to glance at the caller ID display. It didn't show a Manhattan area code. It started with +44. The United Kingdom.

Victoria picked up the heavy receiver, her tone professional, ready to eviscerate whichever low-level broker had bypassed her security. "Victoria Sterling."

"Ah. Miss Sterling. Thank goodness."

The voice on the other end was older and distinctly British. "My name is Julian Croft. I am a private investigator based in London. I must apologize for the hour, but this matter is incredibly time-sensitive. I was retained by Arthur Finch, a solicitor operating out of Rosebrook. I am calling regarding an estate resolution. Your mother’s maiden name was Anderson, correct? Emily Anderson?"

Victoria choked on a sudden inhale, her chest seizing tight before she could pull in a full breath. She hadn't heard her mother's maiden name spoken aloud in twenty-eight years.

"Yes," Victoria said, the word clipping off her tongue.

"Then I have the correct person," Croft sighed. "Miss Sterling, I am calling on behalf of the estate of your grandfather. Joseph Anderson."

Bewilderment flooded Victoria's mind. "My grandfather? Mr. Croft, this is a very poor attempt at fraud. My grandfather died twenty-eight years ago."

The transatlantic connection hissed softly against her ear.

"Miss Sterling," Croft murmured. "I do not know what you were told. But I assure you, Joseph Anderson lived his entire life in Rosebrook. He ran a bed and breakfast there. He passed away a few days ago. The funeral took place earlier today."

Victoria felt a roaring sensation in her ears. The plush leather of her chair, the solid mahogany of her desk, the glittering lights of Manhattan—all of it tilted violently on its axis.

Passed away a few days ago.

A memory, jagged as broken glass, sliced directly through her brain. She was fourteen years old. The rain was freezing, turning the highway into a slick sheet of ice. The sound of metal crushing against the concrete barrier echoed in her skull. Harrison had been behind the wheel. Her mother had died on impact.

For the first forty-eight hours after the crash, Victoria had begged Harrison to let her call Joe. She wanted to pack her bags, take her baby sister Chloe, and fly to Rosebrook. She had just lost her mother; she wanted the only other person in the world who made her feel safe. She wanted the summers by the lake, the sharp scent of cedar and woodsmoke clinging to Joe’s wool sweaters, and the patient rhythm of his calloused hands carving small animals at the kitchen table. She remembered the steep slate rooflines of the inn glowing against the twilight, an anchor in a childhood built on quicksand. The only place where she had ever been allowed to simply be a child.

Harrison had walked out of his study. He smelled of sharp cologne and control. I spoke to the solicitor in England, Harrison had said, his tone without any sign of humanity. Your grandfather’s heart gave out. The grief killed him. I am all you have left now, Victoria.

She had believed him. She was a traumatized teenager holding a sobbing infant. She had frozen her own heart into a solid block of ice just to survive raising her sister in that hostile house.

"That is impossible," Victoria whispered into the receiver. The commanding executive vanished completely. She was suddenly fourteen again, terrified, grasping blindly at thin air.

"I am profoundly sorry," Croft continued steadily. "But he was very much alive. Furthermore, Mr. Finch has strict legal instructions. He cannot unseal the will without your physical presence. We need you to come to England."