The text message was a photograph.

It showed a close-up of the front gate of the Whitmore estate, taken from inside a car parked just across the street.

Below the photo was a single line of text:

“The board won’t save you if you don’t make it to the meeting, Ethan.”

Ethan stood up so fast his leather chair rolled back and struck the heavy mahogany bookcase.

He stared at the glowing screen, his jaw set so tight the muscle in his cheek twitched.

“They are already outside,” I whispered, my eyes darting toward the nursery window.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, but the thought of a car idling in the dark near the iron gates made the room feel suddenly fragile.

“We are not waiting until seven,” Ethan said, his voice flat and dangerously calm.

He picked up his desk phone and dialed a three-digit extension.

“Arthur,” Ethan said when the security chief answered. “We have a vehicle parked across the main gate. Send two men down there now, quietly.”

He paused, listening to the crackle of the receiver.