Elias looked down at the signature line.

“I built this empire from nothing, Ava,” he whispered.

“My father built the foundation,” I said. “You just built the walls to hide what you took.”

He shook his head slowly.

His face looked pale under the recessed ceiling lights.

“I did what was necessary to survive in this city,” he said.

“You did what was easy,” I replied.

The silence in the room felt heavy, smelling of damp wool and old leather.

On his desk sat a silver-framed photograph of us at a charity gala three years ago.

I was smiling, but my eyes were looking past the camera.

He had never noticed.

Elias touched the edge of the paper.

“I thought you understood,” he said.

“Understood what?” I asked. “That I was just another asset on your ledger?”

“You were the only person I trusted,” he said.

The words sounded strange coming from him.

He had never used the word trust without a contract attached to it.

“Then you should have treated me like a partner,” I said.

“I kept you safe,” he said.