I grabbed my coat, shoved the printed paper invoice into my handbag, and walked out of the penthouse.

The autumn air outside was sharp and smelled of wet asphalt.

I hailed a yellow cab on the corner, my hand resting protectively over my stomach.

“Grand Central area,” I told the driver, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins.

Twenty minutes later, I sat in the corner office of Crane, Vance & Associates.

Margaret Crane sat behind a desk of polished cherry wood that gleamed under the soft recessed lighting.

She did not look like a woman who tolerated mistakes.

Her silver hair was pulled into a severe knot, and her tailored charcoal suit was immaculate.

I laid the paper invoice on the desk between us.

Then, I slid my phone across the wood, showing her the logs of Sloane’s keycard entries and the photograph I had just received.

Margaret did not speak immediately.

She put on a pair of thin, tortoiseshell reading glasses and studied the papers.

Her manicured finger traced the words *Project Celeste* and the billing details linked to my family’s trust account.