“Sloane,” he said, his voice paper-thin.

I could hear the metallic buzz of Sloane’s voice leaking from the receiver.

She was speaking too fast, her words running together in a desperate, breathless stream.

“Nolan, where are you?” she gasped. “The bank just rejected the transfer authorization.”

“What do you mean?” Nolan asked, his knuckles turning white around the casing of his phone.

“The court just issued an emergency stay,” Sloane said, her voice rising in pitch. “They didn’t just freeze Evelyn’s personal accounts—they froze our entire corporate operating fund.”

My father’s lead attorney, a sharp-featured woman named Clara Vance, stepped forward from the doorway.

She adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses and held out a sleek black tablet.

“That would be my doing,” Clara said, her voice cutting through Nolan’s panic. “We filed the emergency petition forty-five minutes ago.”

Nolan stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

“Who the hell are you?” he whispered.

“Clara Vance, general counsel for the Hartwell Civic Group,” she said, scrolling through a document on her screen. “Judge Miller signed the temporary restraining order at nine p.m.”