“You think you won?” Julian spat. “You’re nothing without the name, Alexander. And I took that from you.”

Alexander did not stop walking.

“You can keep the name, Julian,” Alexander said quietly. “I have my life back.”

We walked out of the Plaza Hotel into the cold night air of Fifth Avenue.

Flashing blue and red lights painted the wet asphalt.

A black SUV was waiting at the curb, its engine idling.

An agent opened the door for us.

“Mr. Whitmore, Mrs. Whitmore, please get inside,” the agent said.

Hearing him call me Mrs. Whitmore sent a shiver through my spine.

We climbed into the leather seats, and the driver immediately pulled away from the curb.

Inside the quiet cabin, Alexander finally let go of my waist and took both of my hands in his.

His palms were warm, a contrast to the freezing winter air outside.

“It is over, Claire,” he said.

“Is it?” I asked, looking out the tinted window at the passing city lights. “What about my father?”

“The federal prosecutors have the files we gave them,” Alexander said.