She glared at me, her eyes filled with cold hatred.

“You won’t get a dime of our personal money,” she hissed.

“I don’t want your money,” I said. “I want my home back.”

Malcolm walked over to our table, his wet trench coat dripping onto the floor.

“The state police are waiting in the corridor,” Malcolm said in a low voice.

“They have the warrants for grand theft and conspiracy.”

“Who is named on the warrants?” Lydia asked, looking up from her legal pad.

“Evan Hayes, Vivian Hayes, and Sloane Pierce,” Malcolm replied.

“They’re picking up Pierce at her townhouse right now.”

My stomach tightened at the mention of Sloane.

She was the one who had helped Evan locate the keys to the sealed cellar.

She was the one who had tasted my father’s 1945 Romanée-Conti while planning my ruin.

Now, her name was on a criminal indictment.

“Let’s go,” Lydia said, sliding her papers into her briefcase.

“The media will be outside the front doors.”

“We can use the service exit,” Malcolm suggested, gesturing toward a side door.

I took one last look at Evan.