The preview showed a single sentence from Maren.

*Bianca is in the lobby downstairs.*

I slid the phone face down onto the mahogany wood.

Graham’s lead attorney, a tall man named Arthur Harrison, stepped into the room behind him.

Harrison adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and stared at Raymond.

“What is the meaning of this, Raymond?” Harrison asked, his voice sharp. “My client was called to an emergency restructuring meeting, not a theatrical performance.”

Raymond did not look up from his legal pad.

“There is no theater here, Arthur,” Raymond said quietly. “Only the transfer of debt.”

Graham took three strides toward the table, his leather shoes clicking loudly on the polished floorboards.

He slammed his palms down on the wood opposite me.

“You don’t own anything here, Arden,” Graham hissed, his face inches from mine. “You are a housewife. You don’t know the first thing about Whitaker-Crane.”

I looked at his hands.

His knuckles were white, the gold wedding band on his finger catching the light.

“I know enough,” I said.

My voice was calmer than I expected it to be.