They had no idea that I owned the entire building, or that the firm itself was a subsidiary of my holding company.

I parked in my designated spot near the back entrance.

Inside, the air conditioning was hummed softly, a stark contrast to the thick Texas humidity outside.

I walked past the receptionist, giving her a brief nod, and entered my private office.

I sat behind my laminate desk and pulled a thick manila folder from my locked desk drawer.

Inside were the papers Sterling had prepared weeks ago.

Five minutes later, my office door burst open.

Graham walked in, his tie loosened and beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

He looked older, the stress of the past forty-eight hours carving deep lines around his mouth.

“Jocelyn,” he said, closing the door quickly behind him. “We don’t have much time.”

“Sit down, Graham,” I said.

He didn’t sit; instead, he paced the small space between my desk and the visitor chairs.

“The bank has frozen my operating accounts,” he said, his hands gesturing wildly. “It’s a temporary misunderstanding, but they won’t budge without a guarantee.”