“Sarah Jenkins,” I whispered, my finger tracing her real name.

“She was a freelance corporate scout,” Vance said. “Vivian hired her to infiltrate your social circle in Boston, gain your trust, and eventually place her inside Vale House.”

I turned the page and found a series of printed emails.

One email from Vivian, dated eight years ago, read: *Evelyn is expanding the textile division. Ensure Sarah has the appropriate credentials in luxury logistics. We need her in the supply chain.*

Another email detailed the creation of the “Sloane Whitaker” identity, complete with a forged employment history at a defunct Swiss shipping firm.

“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Why did Vivian want this years before I even met Carter?”

“Look at the dates, Mrs. Hartwell,” Vance said softly. “Your mother was still alive then. Vale House was about to buy the Hartwell shipping docks in Rhode Island. Vivian wanted a mole inside your mother’s company to manipulate the acquisition price.”

“But my mother died,” I said.

“And then you inherited the company,” Vance said. “The plan changed. Vivian realized it was easier to have her son marry you, while keeping her mole in place to slowly bleed your assets into Hartwell accounts.”