He turned his head toward Celeste, his eyes pleading.

“Celeste,” Adrian said.

She did not look at him.

She was staring at the floor, her knuckles white around her handbag.

She took a slow step backward, closer to the heavy double doors.

“Sign the papers, Adrian,” Margaret said.

“If you do not sign, I will personally hand the metadata files to the federal prosecutor myself.”

“And I will cut off your trust distribution.”

Adrian’s hands shook so badly he could barely grip the heavy gold pen on the table.

The tip scratched loudly against the paper as he scribbled his signature.

He dropped the pen.

It rolled across the table and left a thin line of black ink on the white document.

“It is done,” Margaret said.

She took the paper, checked the signature, and placed it back in her folder.

Then she looked at me.

“The child’s trust will be established by tomorrow morning,” Margaret said.

“Five million dollars, managed by an independent trustee of your choice.”

“And the apartment in Tribeca,” I said.

My voice was steady, steadier than I felt.

Margaret nodded once.