No photos. No employee lists.

Just an address and a phone number.

I stared at the screen, a sense of dread pooling in my chest.

If Vance went back far enough, he would find the records from my old landlord.

He would find the medical bills from when I did not have insurance.

He would present those as proof that I was unfit to manage a multimillion-dollar logistics empire.

“We’re entering Cherry Creek,” Calvin said, breaking the silence.

The industrial warehouses gave way to manicured lawns and massive, modern brick homes.

The streetlights here were warm and yellow, casting soft glows on the snow-covered driveways.

Calvin slowed the truck down, looking at the house numbers.

“Sterling’s place should be on the next corner,” he said.

The truck crept forward, the engine low and steady.

Up ahead, a large iron gate stood open at the entrance of a circular driveway.

A sleek black sedan was parked near the front door of the house, its engine idling.

Exhaust fumes rose from its tailpipe in thick plumes.

“Someone is already here,” Calvin said, pulling the truck to the curb a few houses down.