Eleanor sat beside him, her spine as straight as a spear, her face an unreadable mask of cold aristocratic disdain.

Gareth was seated at the far end of the table, his arm in a black sling, staring blankly at the floor.

The prosecution called me first.

I took the stand, swore the oath, and looked directly at the jury.

For three days, I explained the numbers.

I showed them how the Thornes had systematically stripped assets from public housing projects, inflating construction costs and pocketing the difference.

I showed them the signatures on the Cayman transfers.

I showed them the wiretaps where Julian discussed “cleaning” the funds through dummy art galleries.

The defense attorney tried to paint me as a disgruntled former employee with a personal vendetta.

“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Mercer, that you harbor deep resentment toward the Thorne family because of your daughter’s failed marriage?” he asked, leaning against the wooden railing.

“I harbor resentment because they abused my daughter,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the silent courtroom. “But the numbers do not harbor resentment. The numbers simply tell the truth. And the truth is that the Thorne family stole sixty-four million dollars.”