Alexander reached out and took my hand, his fingers warm and reassuring.

“He fell for it,” Alexander said quietly.

“He thinks I’m desperate,” I said. “He thinks I’m trying to buy my way out.”

“He will have his security team at every exit,” Alexander warned. “He intends to take the document and ensure you never leave that hotel.”

“We won’t give him the chance,” I said.

I walked over to the wooden table where we had spread out our materials.

Among the papers was a heavy black folder containing Alexander’s medical records from the Swiss clinic.

Beside it lay the DNA profile we had secretly secured from a glass Julian had used at a fundraiser weeks ago.

The differences between the two brothers were microscopic, but they were there.

“The surgical scar is our best asset,” Alexander said, pointing to a high-resolution photograph of Julian’s face.

I looked at the image of the man who had stolen my husband’s life.

“The surgeon did a remarkable job matching your jawline,” I said.