I held Lily tighter against my chest.

She let out a soft sigh in her sleep, her warm breath damp against my collarbone.

Grace did not move a muscle.

She kept her eyes on her watch, her pen poised over her legal pad.

“Seventeen minutes,” Grace said.

Margaret looked at her son.

There was no warmth in her eyes, only a cold, analytical calculation.

“The Whitmore Grand has survived three recessions and two world wars,” Margaret said.

“It will not be dragged through the mud because you could not control your greed.”

“Mother, it was a mistake,” Adrian stammered, his hands shaking on the mahogany table.

“The lawyers in Nassau said the filing was standard.”

“You lied to the board,” Margaret said.

“You forged a signature to disinherit your own child, and you did it poorly.”

She looked at me for a fraction of a second, her gaze hard and unreadable.

“Which is worse,” Margaret added.

She reached into her leather briefcase and pulled out a thick document.

She slid it across the polished wood.

It stopped right in front of Adrian.

“What is this?” Adrian asked.