Vivian looked pale, her perfect high-society facade cracked as she glared at the lenses.

Garrett stood beside her, looking lost, his hands stuffed deep into his suit pockets.

He caught my eye for a fraction of a second, then looked down at the polished floor.

I didn’t stop.

Marcus and I bypassed the main elevators and took the service exit to the parking garage.

A black town car was idling in the shadows of the concrete structure, its exhaust forming pale plumes in the chilly autumn air.

The rear door clicked open as we approached.

Arthur Bradford sat in the leather seat, his hands resting on the silver head of his cane.

“Get in, Clara,” Arthur said, his voice dry and raspy. “There isn’t much time.”

I climbed into the spacious back seat, and Marcus slid in beside me, pulling the door shut.

The heavy door closed with a dull thud, sealing out the noise of the city.

“You won the custody battle,” Arthur said, staring straight ahead. “But Vivian’s stupidity has dragged the family name into the mud.”