He looked back at me for a fraction of a second.

His dark eyes were steady, calm, and completely devoid of doubt.

In that moment, the cold knot of terror that had ruled my life for months began to loosen, just a little.

“And Clara is under my protection,” Vincent added.

Derek’s face twisted into an ugly, desperate mask.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his inner pocket.

“She signed these!” Derek shouted, waving the document in the wet air.

“The legacy is mine! The estate, the accounts, her father’s name—it all belongs to me!”

The paper was damp from the rain, the ink starting to bleed into the white fiber.

“Those are forgeries, Derek,” I said, my voice shaking but clear.

I stepped out from behind Vincent, feeling the cold rain hit my face.

“My father never signed anything over to you,” I said.

“He knew exactly what you were, and he died trying to keep his life’s work out of your hands.”

Derek took a step toward me, his fingers curling into a fist.

“Shut up, you useless—”