“We aren’t here for the card,” Harrison said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

I held my breath, stepping back into the deeper shadows of the hallway.

“We need that file before she realizes what’s in it,” Harrison said.

He walked quickly toward my study, his leather shoes clicking loudly on the hardwood floor.

Patricia followed him, her heels clicking a faster, more frantic rhythm.

“She’s a software developer, Harrison,” Patricia said, her voice fading slightly as they entered the room. “She doesn’t keep physical records.”

“You don’t know her,” Harrison called back. “She keeps hard copies of everything important. It’s in a black folder.”

I crept down the carpeted hallway, keeping my back to the wall.

Through the double glass doors of the study, I watched them.

Harrison was tossing papers out of my desk drawers.

Tax returns, old bank statements, and corporate filings scattered onto the Persian rug.

“If she finds that audit,” Patricia whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the mahogany desk, “we lose everything. The Voss name is done.”

“I’m looking, Mother,” Harrison snapped.

He yanked at the bottom drawer.

It was locked.

He grabbed a heavy brass paperweight from the desktop.

“Harrison, don’t,” Patricia hissed.

He didn’t listen.

He slammed the brass weight against the lock of the bottom drawer.

The wood splintered with a sharp crack that echoed through the penthouse.

He pulled the drawer open and reached inside.

His fingers closed around a thick, black leather folder.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

That folder contained the complete financial history of Voss Holdings, which Elena had subpoenaed during the divorce.

Harrison pulled it out, his face pale under the study lights.

He opened it, and a folded piece of paper fell to the floor.

It was a letter on Patricia’s personal stationery, dated three weeks before our wedding.

Harrison picked it up and began to read.