Marcus Rotterdam sat alone in his study, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch resting in his hand as he stared into the amber liquid. He swirled it slowly, trying to calm the tight pressure building in his chest since the night before.The plan had worked.It had worked too well.Melissa was now married to Jason Luther. The first five hundred million had already been transferred. Every step had unfolded exactly as he had designed it, clean and precise.And yet, the unease would not leave him.He shifted in his chair, his fingers tightening slightly around the glass. “Everything is under control,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low but strained, as if saying it enough times might make it true.His phone rang.Not his regular phone.The burner.Marcus straightened immediately, his expression sharpening as he answered. “Yes,” he said, his tone firm but edged with tension.“Sir, it’s Mitchell,” the voice came through, tight and alert. “We might have a problem,” he added, his unease

Jason paused outside Claire’s door, steadying himself before he knocked lightly. “It’s me. Can I come in?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle, almost cautious.“...Yes,” Claire replied from inside, her voice soft and distant, as if it had to travel through layers of exhaustion to reach him.He pushed the door open slowly and stepped in. Claire sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped tightly in a plush bathrobe, her damp hair clinging to her face and neck. Her eyes were swollen, her lashes still wet with tears.But she was here. Breathing. Alive.Jason crossed the room without hesitation and dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her cold hands in his. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, his brows drawn with concern.Claire let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice fragile and uneven. “It doesn’t feel real. I keep thinking I

Jason stood rigid for a moment, his jaw tight and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. Then he turned slowly to Melissa, and the look in his eyes made her chest tighten with dread. “This is your fault,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, but edged with something far more dangerous. “Every complication. Every delay. Every moment of pain Claire experiences. All of it traces back to you and your father’s greed.” Melissa lowered her gaze, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “I know,” she whispered, her voice thin and unsteady. Jason let out a short, humorless breath. “Knowing doesn’t fix it,” he said coldly, already moving toward the door Claire had disappeared through. He paused just long enough to glance back at her, his expression hard. “Stay out of her way. Don’t speak to her unless it’s absolutely necessary. Don’t even look at her if you can avoid it,” he continued, his tone sharpening with quiet menace. “Because if you cause her one more s

The next evening, Melissa stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, staring at her reflection as if it belonged to someone else.The dress clung to her like it had been poured onto her skin, a deep emerald green that caught the light with every small movement. It fit perfectly, too perfectly, shaped to her body in a way that felt deliberate. The neckline was elegant, the fabric smooth and fluid, the skirt falling in soft waves that shifted when she breathed.She lifted a hand slightly, almost afraid to touch it.Her hair had been styled into soft, controlled waves that framed her face, and her makeup was flawless, subtle enough to look natural but precise enough to transform her. The jewelry at her neck and wrists shimmered quietly, each piece heavy with a value she could not begin to imagine.She swallowed hard, her chest tight.“You look beautiful,” Margaret said from behind her, her voice calm and professional with a trace of quiet approval.Melissa met her eyes in t

Melissa stared at Vanessa Chen’s message until the words smeared across the screen like spilled ink. Her pulse hammered violently in her throat. For several seconds, she simply sat there in the darkness of her bedroom, frozen between panic and disbelief.Then she did something she had not done in weeks.She called her father.Not the official prison line monitored by the FBI. Not the number attached to her immunity agreement.The secret one.The number Marcus Rotterdam had slipped to her months ago through a chain of prepaid burner phones created for emergencies exactly like this.The call rang once.Twice.Three times.By the fourth ring, someone answered.“Who is this?” a man demanded sharply, suspicion thick in his voice.Melissa swallowed hard. “I need to speak to Marcus Rotterdam,” she said quickly, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Tell him it’s his daughter. Tell him it’s urgent.”Silence followed.She heard muffled voices in the background, low and distorted. Metal clanged s