The Meeting

Marcus was smiling when I found him, and that's how I knew he'd planned for this.

"Hello, Sloane." He gestured to the bench beside him, the Temple of Dendur rising behind him like something out of a dream. "Thank you for coming alone."

I didn't sit. The wire taped between my shoulder blades felt like it was burning through my shirt, and I kept my arms loose at my sides the way Agent Morrison had told me to. Natural. Relaxed. Like I wasn't wearing a recording device that could put this man away for life.

"You said you'd tell me everything."

"I will." He patted the bench. "But first, sit. Please. I'm not going to hurt you here. Too many witnesses." He glanced around the Egyptian wing, where a handful of tourists wandered between exhibits, their voices echoing off the glass walls. "Besides, I've always liked this room. The light is extraordinary, don't you think?"

I sat. Left six inches between us.

"Your mother died slowly," Marcus said, still smiling. "I want you to know that first. It wasn't quick or painless. Antifreeze tastes sweet, did you know that? She didn't even realize what was happening until it was too late."

My nails dug into my palms. "Why?"

"Because she found the files." He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other like we were discussing the weather. "She came to my office on a Tuesday. March fifteenth, 2005. I remember because it was the Ides of March, and I thought that was fitting. She had copies of everything—the patent applications, the offshore accounts, the falsified reports. She said she was going to the board."

"So you killed her."

"I gave her coffee." His voice was so calm it made my skin crawl. "French roast with cream and two sugars, the way she always took it. We talked for an hour. She told me about you, actually. How proud she was that you'd gotten into college. How she was going to use the whistleblower money to pay your tuition."

I couldn't breathe. The wire pressed against my spine.

"She started feeling sick around the forty-minute mark," Marcus continued. "Nauseous. Dizzy. I told her it was probably the flu. Sent her home. She died three days later in the hospital, and everyone thought it was kidney failure. Natural causes." He turned to look at me, and his eyes were empty. "Your mother was collateral damage, Sloane. You were supposed to be too. But then Dominic had to go and fall in love with you."

"That tracks," I said, and my voice came out steady even though my hands were shaking. "You're a fucking monster."

"I'm practical." He stood, smoothing his jacket. "Walk with me. There's more you need to hear."

---

We moved through the galleries, past sarcophagi and ancient pottery, and Marcus talked like he was giving a tour.

"I've been planning this for thirty years," he said. "Since Richard Ashford passed me over for CFO and gave the position to some Harvard boy who couldn't balance a checkbook. I'd worked for that company since I was twenty-three. I'd saved them millions. And Richard looked at me and said I didn't have the right pedigree."

"So you decided to destroy them."

"I decided to take what should have been mine." We stopped in front of a statue of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of death. "The patent theft was just the beginning. I needed capital, seed money for what came next. Your mother discovering it was—unfortunate. But it gave me an idea."

My stomach turned. "What idea?"

"That the Ashfords could be destroyed from the inside." He smiled again, and I wanted to hit him. "I started small. A few bad investments here, a missed opportunity there. Nothing traceable. Then Catherine—Dominic's mother—started asking questions about the quarterly reports. She was smarter than Richard gave her credit for."

"You killed her too."

"I poisoned her." He said it like he was ordering lunch. "Same method. Antifreeze in her morning tea. She lasted four days. The doctors called it acute renal failure, possible autoimmune response. No one suspected a thing."

The wire was recording every word. I touched my collar, adjusting it, making sure the microphone caught everything.

"And Dominic?" I asked. "Where does he fit in?"

Marcus's expression shifted, something darker sliding across his features. "Dominic was supposed to be the final piece. The golden boy, groomed to take over, only to watch everything crumble. I spent years positioning myself as his trusted advisor, his father's right hand. I was there when Richard died. I helped Dominic through the transition. And all the while, I was bleeding the company dry."

"He trusted you."

"He was naive." Marcus started walking again, and I followed, keeping that six-inch distance. "But then you showed up, and everything changed. He started asking questions. Reviewing old files. Looking into his mother's death. You made him suspicious."

"Good."

"Was it?" He stopped abruptly, turning to face me. "Because now you're both going to lose everything. I have documents, Sloane. Hidden somewhere safe. Documents that prove Dominic knew about the patent theft years before he claims. That he helped his father cover up Catherine's murder. That he's been complicit in everything."

My heart stopped. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He tilted his head. "I'm offering you a deal. Convince Dominic to drop all charges. Leave the country with him. Disappear. And I'll destroy the documents. You can both start over somewhere else, free and clear."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because watching Dominic lose everything he loves is better than watching him die." Marcus's smile widened. "He'll spend the rest of his life knowing he failed. That he couldn't protect his company, his family, or you. That's a better punishment than prison."

I stared at him, this man who'd killed my mother, who'd poisoned Dominic's mother, who'd spent three decades orchestrating revenge for a slight that probably didn't even matter anymore. And I realized something that made my blood run cold.

He meant every word.

"I need to think about it," I said.

"You have twenty-four hours." He checked his watch, a Patek Philippe that probably cost more than my entire education. "After that, the documents go to the press. And Dominic goes to prison."

---

We'd reached the corridor leading to the museum exit, the crowds thinning as we moved away from the main exhibits. My hand drifted to my collar again, making sure the wire was still in place, and that's when Marcus's expression changed.

The smile dropped. His eyes went flat.

"You're recording this," he said.

I didn't answer. Didn't need to.

"Clever girl." He moved faster than I expected, his hand closing around my wrist, yanking me toward him. "Just like your mother. She thought she was clever too."

"Let go—"

The knife came from inside his jacket, a folding blade that snicked open with a sound that made my stomach drop. He pressed it against my throat, the metal cold against my skin, and pulled me back against his chest.

"FBI!" someone shouted. "Drop the weapon!"

Agents emerged from the crowd, from behind pillars, from doorways I hadn't noticed. Six of them, maybe more, all with guns drawn. Agent Morrison was in front, her face hard.

"It's over, Marcus," she said. "Let her go."

"No, I don't think so." Marcus backed toward an emergency exit, dragging me with him. The knife pressed harder, and I felt a sting, then warmth trickling down my neck. "I think Sloane and I are going to take a walk. And if anyone follows us, I'll open her throat right here."

"You won't make it out of the building," Morrison said.

"Maybe not." His breath was hot against my ear. "But she definitely won't."

The emergency exit was ten feet away. Eight. Six.

My mind raced through options. I could drop my weight, try to throw him off balance. I could elbow him in the ribs, hope the knife moved away from my throat long enough to run. I could—

The door burst open.

Dominic stood there, his suit jacket gone, his shirt untucked, his hair disheveled like he'd been running. His eyes found mine, then dropped to the knife at my throat, and something in his expression went absolutely cold.

"Perfect," Marcus said, and I heard the smile in his voice even though I couldn't see his face. "Now we can all leave together. Move toward me, Dominic, or I open her throat right here."

"Don't," I said. "Don't you fucking dare—"

"Quiet." The knife pressed harder. More blood, warm and wet.

Dominic took a step forward, his hands raised. "Let her go, Marcus. This is between us."

"Is it?" Marcus laughed, the sound sharp and wrong. "Because it seems to me this has always been about her. You threw away everything for this girl. Your company. Your reputation. Your family name. All for some nobody from Southie who couldn't even keep her mother alive."

"Shut up," I said.

"Did you know she was there?" Marcus's voice was conversational now, like we were back on the bench discussing ancient Egypt. "Your mother. When she died. You were in the hospital room, weren't you, Sloane? Holding her hand while the poison shut down her kidneys. While she screamed from the pain."

"Shut up."

"Did she say your name at the end? Did she—"

I slammed my head back into his face.

The knife slipped, cutting deeper, but his grip loosened and I twisted away, dropping to the floor as gunshots cracked through the corridor. Marcus stumbled backward, red blooming across his shoulder, and Dominic was there, his hands on me, pulling me away from the blood spreading across the marble.

"I've got you," he said, and his voice was shaking. "I've got you."

But I was looking past him, at Marcus on the ground, at Agent Morrison kicking the knife away, at the other agents swarming in with handcuffs and medical kits. At the man who'd killed my mother, who'd tried to kill me, who'd spent thirty years destroying everything he touched.

He was still smiling.

"The documents," he said, looking straight at me even as they cuffed his hands behind his back. "They're real, Sloane. And in seventy-two hours, everyone will know what Dominic really is."

"There are no documents," Dominic said, but his voice was too quiet, too careful.

Marcus laughed. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. "Keep telling yourself that."

They dragged him away, and I pressed my hand to my throat, feeling the blood pulse between my fingers. Not deep. Not fatal. But enough to scar.

"We need to get you to a hospital," Dominic said.

"No, yeah, I'm fine." I wasn't fine. My legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand. "Did you hear what he said? About the documents?"

"He's lying."

"Is he?"

Dominic's teeth pressed together. He looked away, toward where the agents had taken Marcus, and didn't answer.

That's when I knew.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Dominic. What did you do?"

He met my eyes, and I saw something there I'd never seen before—not guilt, not shame, but something colder. Something that looked like resignation.

"I protected my family," he said. "That's all I've ever done."

---

The paramedics arrived, and they made me sit on a bench while they cleaned the cut on my throat. Butterfly bandages, gauze, instructions about keeping it dry. I barely heard them. I was watching Dominic talk to Agent Morrison across the corridor, watching the way his shoulders were set, the way he kept his hands in his pockets.

The way he wouldn't look at me.

"You're lucky," the paramedic said. "Another millimeter and he would've hit the carotid."

"Yeah," I said. "Lucky."

She finished bandaging me and moved away, and I sat there with my hand pressed to my throat, feeling my pulse hammer against my palm. Feeling the wire still taped to my back, still recording everything.

Dominic crossed the corridor. Sat beside me.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Are you?"

He didn't answer. We sat in silence, watching the crime scene techs photograph blood spatter, watching tourists being redirected to other exits, watching the museum staff try to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

"The documents," I said finally. "Are they real?"

"I don't know."

"But you think they might be."

His silence was answer enough.

"What did you do?" I asked again. "What did you help your father cover up?"

"Nothing." But his voice cracked on the word. "I didn't know about my mother. I swear to you, I didn't know."

"But you knew about something."

He turned to look at me, and his eyes were hollow. "The patent theft. I found evidence of it two years before I reported it. I was twenty-four, fresh out of business school, trying to prove myself. And I found files that showed my father and Marcus had been stealing intellectual property for years."

My stomach dropped. "What did you do?"

"I confronted my father." He looked away again. "He told me it was standard practice. That everyone did it. That if I reported it, I'd destroy the company and put thousands of people out of work. So I—"

"You buried it."

"I buried it." The words came out flat. "And two years later, when I couldn't live with it anymore, I reported it. But by then, my father was dead. Marcus was the only one left to take the fall."

"Jesus Christ, Dominic."

"I know."

"If those documents exist—"

"Then I'm going to prison." He said it calmly, like he'd already accepted it. "And you need to be as far away from me as possible when that happens."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him we'd figure it out, that we'd find the documents first, that there had to be a way out of this. But the words stuck in my throat, trapped behind the bandages and the blood and the memory of Marcus's knife against my skin.

"I should go," I said instead.

"Sloane—"

"I need to think." I stood, and my legs held this time. "I need to—I just need to think."

He didn't try to stop me. Just watched as I walked away, past the crime scene tape, past the agents still taking statements, past the tourists who'd gathered to gawk at the blood on the floor.

I made it to the museum steps before my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered it anyway.

"Ms. Whitley?" A woman's voice, professional and cold. "This is Rebecca Chen from the New York Times. I'm calling about documents we received this morning regarding Dominic Ashford and Ashford Industries. Do you have any comment?"

The world tilted.

"What documents?" I asked, but I already knew.

"Emails and financial records showing Mr. Ashford's knowledge of patent theft dating back six years. We're running the story tomorrow morning. I wanted to give you a chance to respond."

I hung up. Stared at my phone. At the museum behind me, where Dominic was still sitting on that bench, still believing we had time to figure this out.

We didn't have time.

Marcus had planned for everything.

My phone rang again. Different number. I let it go to voicemail. Then another call. Another. The press had the story, and they were circling like sharks.

I turned back toward the museum, toward Dominic, toward the man I'd fallen in love with despite every instinct telling me not to. The man who'd lied to me. Who'd covered up crimes. Who'd protected his family at the cost of everything else.

The man who'd just lost everything anyway.

The emergency exit door I'd almost been dragged through was still propped open, and through it I could see Agent Morrison talking into her radio, her expression grim. She looked up, saw me watching, and shook her head once.

A warning.

I pulled out my phone and texted Dominic: They have the documents. NYT is running the story tomorrow.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then: I know.

Two words that changed everything.

I was halfway down the museum steps when I heard the shouting. Turned back to see agents flooding out of the emergency exit, their weapons drawn, their radios crackling with urgent voices.

"Suspect escaped during transport—"

"—last seen heading toward—"

"—armed and dangerous—"

Marcus.

He'd gotten away.

My phone buzzed. Text from another unknown number: You should have taken my deal. Now everyone loses. -M

I ran.

Back up the steps, through the museum entrance, past security trying to stop me. I found Dominic in the corridor where I'd left him, but he wasn't alone anymore. Agent Morrison was there, and two other agents, and they all had their hands on their weapons.

"We need to get you both to a secure location," Morrison said. "Now."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"We don't know. He overpowered the transport officer and—"

Glass shattered somewhere above us. Screams echoed through the galleries.

"Go," Morrison said, pushing us toward a service exit. "Go now."

But we didn't make it three steps before the lights went out.

Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing everything in red, and in that crimson glow I saw Marcus at the end of the corridor. He had a gun now, taken from the transport officer, and it was pointed straight at Dominic.

"I told you," Marcus said, his voice carrying across the space between us. "Watching you lose everything is better than watching you die. But I'm flexible."

The gun shifted. Pointed at me instead.

"No!" Dominic moved, putting himself between us, and that's when Marcus smiled.

"There it is," he said. "That's what I wanted to see. You, choosing her over everything else. Over your company. Over your family name. Over your own life."

"Marcus—"

"Shut up." The gun didn't waver. "I spent thirty years building this moment. Thirty years watching you Ashfords take everything that should have been mine. And now, finally, you understand what it feels like."

"Please," I said, and I hated how my voice shook. "Please, just—"

"Just what? Let you go? Forgive and forget?" He laughed, and it was the sound of something breaking. "Your mother begged too. Did I mention that? When sthe truth landed: what I'd done. She begged me to save her. To call an ambulance. To let her say goodbye to you."

"Stop."

"I told her no." He took a step forward. "I told her she should have minded her own business. That she should have—"

The shot came from behind us.

Marcus stumbled, the gun falling from his hand, and Agent Morrison stepped out of the shadows with her weapon raised.

"Stay down," she said.

But Marcus was already moving, lunging for the gun, and everything happened at once. More shots. Dominic pulling me to the ground. Agents swarming in. And Marcus, on the floor, blood spreading beneath him, still reaching for the weapon that had skittered just out of reach.

"The documents," he said, looking at me with eyes that were already going glassy. "They're in—"

He never finished.

His hand dropped. His chest stopped moving. And the man who'd killed my mother, who'd destroyed Dominic's family, who'd spent three decades orchestrating revenge, was finally, finally gone.

I should have felt relief. Triumph. Something.

Instead, I just felt empty.

Dominic helped me up, his hands gentle on my arms, and we stood there in the red emergency lighting, surrounded by agents and blood and the ruins of everything we'd tried to build.

"It's over," he said.

But we both knew it wasn't.

The documents were still out there. The press still had the story. And tomorrow morning, when the New York Times published their exposé, Dominic's life as he knew it would end.

"We should go," Agent Morrison said. "Before the press gets here."

We followed her out through the service exit, into an alley where black SUVs waited. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that looked too much like blood.

My phone buzzed. Another text from the Times reporter: Story goes live at 6 AM. Last chance for comment.

I showed it to Dominic.

He read it, his face expressionless, and handed the phone back. "Tell her the truth."

"Which truth?"

"All of it." He looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before—not resignation, not defeat, but something that looked almost like peace. "I'm done hiding."

"Dominic—"

"I'm done," he said again. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I'm done lying. Done protecting a legacy that was built on theft and murder. Done pretending I'm anything other than my father's son."

"That's not—"

"It is." He touched my face, his thumb brushing the bandage on my throat. "And you need to decide if you can live with that. If you can love someone who's—"

"Don't." I grabbed his hand. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"Sloane—"

"I already decided." The words came out fierce. "I decided when I walked into that museum. When I let them wire me up and send me in to face the man who killed my mother. I decided when I—"

My phone rang.

Dominic's number.

But Dominic was standing right in front of me.

I answered it anyway.

"Hello, Sloane." Marcus's voice, recorded, playing from somewhere. "If you're hearing this, I'm dead. And you're about to learn the truth about the man you love."

The recording continued, Marcus's voice calm and measured, explaining in detail every crime Dominic had covered up, every lie he'd told, every person he'd protected at the cost of justice.

And at the end: "The documents are in a safety deposit box at Chase Manhattan, box 2847. The key is taped under the bench where we first sat. You have twenty-four hours before they're automatically released to the press. Choose wisely."

The call ended.

Dominic and I stared at each other.

"We need to go back," I said.

"No."

"Dominic—"

"No." His voice was hard. "We're not playing his game anymore. Let the documents come out. Let the world see what I am. I'm done."

"But—"

"I'm done, Sloane." He pulled away from me, from the SUV, from Agent Morrison trying to usher us inside. "I'm done running. Done hiding. Done letting my father's sins define my life."

"So what, you're just going to let yourself go to prison?"

"If that's what it takes." He looked at me, and his eyes were clear. "I'm not my father. I'm not Marcus. And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next secret to surface."

"That's not—"

"It's over." He said it gently, like he was trying to spare me. "Whatever we had, whatever we could have been—it's over. You deserve better than this. Better than me."

"Don't I get a say in that?"

"No." He stepped back. "Because I'm not giving you a choice. I'm not letting you throw your life away for someone who—"

"Who what? Who made mistakes? Who tried to protect his family? Who—"

"Who's going to prison." The words hung between us. "The documents are real, Sloane. Everything Marcus said—it's all true. And when that story breaks tomorrow, I'm going to be arrested. And you need to be far away from me when that happens."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, yeah, I'm not doing this." I moved toward him. "I'm not letting you martyr yourself because you think that's what I deserve. I'm not—"

"Ms. Whitley." Agent Morrison's voice cut through. "We need to leave. Now."

But I wasn't looking at her. I was looking at Dominic, at the man I'd fallen in love with despite every reason not to, and I was making a choice.

"I'm going back for those documents," I said.

"Sloane—"

"I'm going back, and I'm getting them, and then we're going to figure out what to do with them. Together."

"There's nothing to figure out. They prove I'm—"

"They prove you made a mistake when you were twenty-four years old." I grabbed his jacket. "They prove you tried to protect your family. They don't prove you're a monster."

"The law won't see it that way."

"Then we'll fight the law." I pulled him closer. "We'll fight the press. We'll fight the board. We'll fight everyone who tries to use your father's sins against you. But we're doing it together, or we're not doing it at all."

He stared at me. "Why?"

"Because that's what you do when you love someone." The words came out raw. "You fight for them. Even when they're trying to push you away. Even when they think they're protecting you. You fight."

"I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm telling you." I let go of his jacket. "Now get in the fucking car so we can go get those documents before someone else does."

For a long moment, he didn't move. Just stood there in the alley, in the fading light, looking at me like he was trying to memorize my face.

Then he got in the car.

---

We made it back to the museum in fifteen minutes, Agent Morrison driving like she was in a chase scene, the sirens clearing traffic ahead of us. The museum was closed now, crime scene tape across the entrance, but Morrison flashed her badge and they let us through.

The Egyptian wing was empty. The Temple of Dendur loomed in the darkness, lit only by emergency lighting that made the shadows dance.

The bench where Marcus and I had sat was exactly where we'd left it.

I knelt beside it, running my hands along the underside, feeling for—

There.

A key, taped to the wood.

I pulled it free and held it up to the light. Small, brass, with a number stamped on the side: 2847.

"Got it," I said.

Dominic took it from my hand, turning it over, his expression unreadable. "We should destroy it."

"What?"

"The key. We should destroy it. Let the documents stay buried."

"Dominic—"

"If we get them, we have to decide what to do with them. And whatever we decide, someone loses." He looked at me. "If we destroy them, Marcus wins. If we release them, I go to prison. If we hide them, we spend the rest of our lives waiting for them to surface."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe there's no good choice here." He closed his fist around the key. "Maybe we're fucked no matter what we do."

"No, yeah, that tracks." I stood, brushing dust off my knees. "But we're still going to get those documents. Because I need to know what's in them. I need to see exactly what we're dealing with."

"And then?"

"And then we decide." I held out my hand. "Together."

He looked at my hand. At the bandage on my throat. At my face.

Then he placed the key in my palm.

"Together," he said.

We were halfway to the exit when the lights came back on.

Not the emergency lighting—the full museum lights, bright and harsh, flooding the galleries with artificial daylight.

And standing in the corridor, blocking our path, was a woman I'd never seen before.

Tall, elegant, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car. Dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Eyes that looked like they could cut glass.

"Hello, Dominic," she said. "It's been a long time."

Dominic went absolutely still beside me. "Patricia."

"I heard about Marcus." She stepped closer, her heels clicking on the marble. "Such a tragedy. He was always so dedicated to the company."

"What are you doing here?"

"Protecting my investment." Her eyes slid to me. "You must be Sloane. I've heard so much about you."

"Yeah, no, I can't say the same."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Patricia Ashford. Dominic's aunt. And the majority shareholder of Ashford Industries."

The world tilted again.

"I thought—" I looked at Dominic. "You said your father left you the company."

"He left me control," Dominic said, his voice tight. "Patricia owns forty-five percent of the shares. I own thirty. The rest is divided among the board."

"Which means," Patricia said, "that I have the power to remove you as CEO. And given recent events, I think that's exactly what needs to happen."

"You can't—"

"I can. And I will." She held out her hand. "But first, I'll take that key."

I closed my fist around it. "No."

"Sloane—" Dominic started.

"No," I said again. "We're not giving her anything."

Patricia's smile widened. "How refreshing. Someone with a spine. But I'm afraid you don't have a choice. That key belongs to Ashford Industries. Any documents Marcus hid are company property. And as the majority shareholder, I have every right to claim them."

"The hell you do."

"The law says I do." She took another step forward. "Now give me the key, or I'll have security remove you both from the premises."

I looked at Dominic. He was staring at his aunt with an expression I couldn't read—not anger, not fear, but something that looked almost like recognition.

"You knew," he said quietly. "About Marcus. About what he was doing. You knew."

Patricia didn't deny it. "I suspected."

"And you did nothing."

"I did what was necessary to protect the company." Her voice was cold. "Just like you did. Just like your father did. That's what Ashfords do, Dominic. We protect what's ours."

"Even if it means covering up murder?"

"Even then." She held out her hand again. "The key. Now."

I should have given it to her. Should have handed it over and walked away and let the Ashfords destroy each other without me.

But I thought about my mother. About Catherine. About all the people Marcus had hurt, all the lives he'd destroyed, all in the name of protecting what was "theirs."

And I made a choice.

I ran.

Past Patricia, past Agent Morrison shouting behind me, past security guards trying to block my path. I ran through the galleries, past ancient artifacts and priceless art, the key clutched in my fist like a weapon.

I made it to the main entrance before someone grabbed my arm.

Dominic.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What I should have done from the beginning." I pulled free. "I'm going to get those documents. I'm going to read every single page. And then I'm going to decide what to do with them. Not you. Not Patricia. Not the board. Me."

"Sloane—"

"My mother died because of your family's secrets." The words came out harsh. "I'm not letting anyone bury them again."

He stared at me. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Then let's go."

"What?"

"You're right." He took my hand. "This is your choice. Your decision. I'm just—I'm just here to help."

Behind us, Patricia was shouting orders. Security was closing in. Agent Morrison was on her radio, calling for backup.

We ran anyway.

Out of the museum, down the steps, into the street where the SUV was still waiting. Morrison's driver saw us coming and started the engine, and we dove into the back seat as Patricia burst through the museum doors.

"Drive," I said.

The driver looked at Morrison, who'd appeared beside the car, her expression torn.

"Drive," Morrison said.

We drove.

---

Chase Manhattan was closed by the time we arrived, but Morrison's badge got us inside. The night manager looked nervous as he led us down to the vault, kept glancing at Dominic like he recognized him from the news.

He probably did. The story had broken an hour ago—not the Times piece, but something worse. Video footage from the museum, showing Marcus confessing to murder. Showing him holding a knife to my throat. Showing Dominic standing there, helpless, while the woman he loved almost died.

The footage had gone viral.

"Box 2847," the manager said, stopping in front of a small metal door. "I'll need to see the key."

I handed it over. He inserted it into the lock, turned it, and pulled out a long metal box.

"I'll give you some privacy," he said, and disappeared.

Dominic and I stared at the box.

"Last chance," he said. "We can walk away. Leave it here. Let Patricia deal with it."

"Is that what you want?"

"I want you to be safe." He touched my face. "I want you to have a life that doesn't involve death threats and federal investigations and—"

"Too late." I opened the box.

Inside were files. Dozens of them, organized with the same meticulous care Marcus had brought to everything else. Financial records. Emails. Photographs. And at the bottom, a handwritten letter addressed to me.

I picked it up with shaking hands.

Dear Sloane,

If you're reading this, I'm dead. And you're about to learn the truth about the man you love.

Everything in these files is real. Every document, every email, every piece of evidence. Dominic knew about the patent theft. He helped his father cover it up. He's been lying to you from the beginning.

But here's what he doesn't know: I have evidence that proves his father murdered his mother. Not me. Richard Ashford poisoned Catherine because she was going to divorce him and take half the company. I just made it look like kidney failure.

Dominic spent his whole life believing his father was a good man. That his mother's death was natural. That he was protecting a legacy worth saving.

He was wrong.

*The question is: what