“My family’s trust, my holdings, my personal accounts.”

“You can’t touch them, even if they throw me out of Whitaker-Crane.”

I looked up at him, keeping my expression entirely flat.

The wind rattled the high glass windows of the conservatory down the hall.

I remembered the afternoon I spent with my own attorney, six months ago, in a plain office off the tollway.

I remembered the blue leather binder he had given me, containing the original copy of our agreement.

I thought about the specific clause on page fourteen.

The one Graham had insisted on putting in to protect himself from any potential claims I might make.

The one that worked both ways.

“You should reread the document, Graham,” I said softly.

He laughed, a dry, bitter sound.

“I wrote it, Arden.”

“My lawyers drafted every single line of it.”

“Then you should have read the final revision more carefully,” I said.

I stood up, stepping around him toward the fireplace.

I picked up the iron poker and stirred the dying embers, sending a small shower of orange sparks up the chimney.