It was an incoming call from an unlisted Chicago area code.

“Excuse me,” I said to the agent.

I slid my thumb across the glass and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Avery,” a cold, familiar voice said.

It was Vivian.

I did not speak; I simply held the phone tight against my ear, listening to the static on the line.

“I assume the federal agent is with you now,” Vivian said.

Her voice was as steady and sharp as chipped glass.

“He is,” I said.

“Then you know what has been done,” she said.

“Callum was foolish, Avery. He believed his own name made him invincible.”

“He learned that from you,” I said.

I heard a faint, dry chuckle on the other end of the line.

“Perhaps,” Vivian said.

“But I have always known when a structure is too decayed to save.”

“You threw him to the wolves to keep your penthouse,” I said.

“I saved what remains of the Prescott legacy,” she replied.

“Callum was going to drag us all into the dirt with his obsession over your child and those shares.”