Preston was at the head of the table, laughing at something Arthur Vance, the senior board member, had said.

Samantha Mercer stood near the credenza, pouring herself a cup of water, looking entirely at home.

I pushed the double doors open.

The laughter stopped instantly.

Preston’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he took in my appearance.

“Claire,” Preston said, rising slowly from his leather chair. “This is an internal operational meeting. You have no business here.”

“I have every business here, Preston,” I said, my voice calm and carrying across the room.

I walked to the empty seat opposite him and placed my leather portfolio on the polished mahogany table.

Arthur Vance leaned forward, his bushy gray eyebrows knitting together. “Claire, my dear, is everything alright? You look pale.”

“Everything is about to be set right, Arthur,” I replied.

“This is absurd,” Preston scoffed, gesturing to the security phone on the wall. “She is emotionally unstable. I’m having her escorted out.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Preston,” I said, unzipping the portfolio.

I pulled out the original trust agreements and the certified bank drafts Mia had uncovered.