He walked closer, his eyes dropping to the desk drawer I had just closed.

“What’s in there?” he asked, pointing a finger at the mahogany drawer.

“Old stationery,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He reached out, his hand brushing past my arm, and pulled the drawer open with a loud scrape.

He sifted through the yellowed paper, his fingers brushing the very spot where the key had been taped moments before.

I forced my face to remain blank, staring at the gray sky outside the window.

He slammed the drawer shut.

“There’s nothing here,” he muttered.

“I told you,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, his face inches from mine, and I could smell the damp wool of his coat.

“Sloane is handling the foundation’s winter gala now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Sloane has no right to touch my mother’s legacy,” I said, my voice trembling with sudden anger.

“Sloane is doing the work you refused to do,” he said. “She has the vision for it.”

“She has the vision to help you launder the rest of the funds,” I said.