He was talking to a tall man in a dark overcoat.

The man’s face was obscured, but I recognized the silver hair.

It was Harold Vance.

Below the image was a short message.

*Everyone has a price, Claire. Don’t play games.*

My blood ran cold.

I looked down at the patent papers in my hand.

Then I looked at Mia, who was watching me with worried eyes.

The landline phone on the desk began to ring.

The sound was deafening in the quiet study.

I stared at the blinking red light on the receiver.

I reached out my hand to answer it.

I picked up the receiver.

“Claire,” Preston’s voice said.

His tone was cold, stripped of the smooth charm he used for reporters and television cameras.

“I see you received my message,” he said.

“Daniel is a good man, Preston,” I said, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the plastic receiver.

“Everyone has a price,” he repeated, his voice flat and empty. “Leave the house, Claire. Leave the papers. If you walk away now, I will let you keep your dignity.”