“By stealing the family trust?” I asked.

“The trust was already compromised,” she said, taking a step toward me.

I stood my ground, my arms crossed.

“Who took it, Rachel?” I demanded.

“Charles Whitmore,” she whispered, her eyes wide with genuine fear.

The name hung in the cold air.

Charles Whitmore was King Alaric’s senior adviser, a man who had served the crown for three decades.

“He is a corrupt monster,” Rachel said, her voice shaking. “He found out about our father’s offshore accounts.”

“And what did he do?” I asked.

“He threatened to expose the family’s past debts to the foreign press,” Rachel said. “He wanted the trust money to fund his own private investments.”

She reached out, trying to touch my arm, but I pulled away.

“He told me that if I did not get Father to sign the release, he would make sure Father went to federal prison,” she said.

“So you helped him,” I said.

“I tried to play Whitmore’s game to protect Dad,” Rachel said. “But Whitmore got impatient.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a grey smudge on her cheek.