“If you don’t, they are on the judge’s desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Sloane shifted her weight, her silk dress rustling in the quiet room.

She reached for her wine glass, her hand trembling slightly as she took a quick sip.

“Evan, maybe we should just go,” Sloane whispered, not looking at Vivian or me.

“Shut up, Sloane,” Vivian said without turning her head.

Lydia stepped between Evan and me, her leather briefcase clutched tightly in her left hand.

“This is blackmail, Evan,” Lydia said.

“It is a matter of public record, or it will be,” Evan corrected her, a smug smile returning to his face.

“A husband has a duty to protect his wife’s estate when she is incapable of doing so herself.”

I looked down at my hands, my fingers locked together in my lap.

They were cold.

The room felt incredibly small, the high ceilings of Sloane’s townhouse pressing down on us.

I thought of my father’s study at the Hayes estate.

I thought of the heavy mahogany desk where he kept his personal papers.