For the first time since she had walked into the room, the mask of absolute control began to crack.

A pale hue washed over her cheeks, and her jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscles flexing beneath her skin.

“That document was an internal draft,” Margaret said, her voice losing its icy calm and becoming sharp.

“No,” Grace said. “This document was submitted to the bank’s compliance department in an attempt to secure a fifty-million-dollar line of credit for Adrian’s new development project.”

She looked Margaret dead in the eye.

“Which means your son didn’t just make a tactical error with Vivian.”

“He committed corporate fraud.”

I stared at the document on the desk.

The letters and numbers blurred before my eyes, but the word “forgery” seemed to stand out in bold.

“He wouldn’t,” I whispered, looking from Grace to Margaret.

Margaret did not look at me.

Her eyes remained fixed on the blue folder in Grace’s hands.

“This is a bluff,” Margaret said, though her voice lacked its earlier authority.

“It isn’t a bluff, Mrs. Whitmore,” Grace said. “The forensic handwriting expert we retained has already completed his report.”