THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

TERMS OF SURRENDER.

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Preston's mouth opened and closed. He looked like a man attempting to solve a math problem printed in a language he didn't read. His eyes moved from Ronan's face, to the watch, to the marble table, to the ceiling, as though the answer might be written there.

"This is a joke," he finally managed. "Vivienne put you up to this. Or Coleman. Some kind of prank."

"Does the room feel like a prank?"

"You're... you're an intern who wouldn't even..." Preston's voice cracked. He tried again, louder. "You were a low-level designer. I fired you. I fired you!"

"Yes," Ronan agreed. "You did. On a Tuesday afternoon, in front of your entire staff, while your hand was on my wife." He tapped the table once with a finger. "I remember it well. I've been meaning to thank you."

"Thank me?"

"If you hadn't fired me, I would have been in that cubicle when the cars arrived. And I wouldn't have been standing in the rain."

The door behind Preston opened without a sound. Sienna entered with a leather folder and took the chair beside Ronan, her expression as cool as glass. She placed a document in front of Preston and slid it across the polished wood.

"Mr. Halvane," she said. "Please review this."

He read the header. His stomach dropped through the floor.

"Notice of Foreclosure and Transfer of Controlling Interest," he whispered. "Brentford Design... to Kastellan Global Holdings."

"Ninety-four percent, as of eight this morning," Sienna said. "The remaining six belong to your employees, who will be receiving generous severance packages, funded by us."

"You can't do this. That firm was built by Harold Brentford. It's Vivienne's family—"

"Harold Brentford is dead," Ronan said. "And you spent the last year running his company into a ditch while you pocketed the difference."

Preston went white. "That's a lie."

Sienna opened her folder and fanned out a stack of bank statements. "Offshore transfers, Mr. Halvane. Fourteen months of them. Invoiced to fake vendors. Rather sloppy work. Halcyon's accountants found it in an afternoon."

"You don't understand." Preston stood, knocking his chair back. His hands were shaking. "I was going to pay it back! Everyone does it! It's just, it's a bridge, the wedding, the house, Vivienne has expensive taste"

"Sit down," Ronan said.

Preston sat.

"I want you to hear something," Ronan said, and his voice was softer now, which was worse. "I'm not going to shout at you. I'm not going to hit you, although I'd be lying if I said I hadn't imagined it. What I'm going to do is offer you a choice."

Preston stared at him.

"One." Ronan held up a finger. "I hand these statements to the district attorney this afternoon. You lose the firm, you lose your license, and you spend the next eight to ten years in a facility where nobody will be impressed by your watch."

"And two?"

"Two." A second finger. "Nothing changes. You go home. You tell Vivienne the firm is fine. You go ahead with your wedding on Saturday, exactly as planned, and in return, I keep these statements in a drawer."

Preston blinked. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"Why?" His voice was raw. "Why would you...? What do you get out of it?"

Ronan smiled, and there was nothing warm in it. "You invited me, remember? You promised an invitation, and I'd hate to miss it."

Realization crept across Preston's face, followed quickly by cunning. Ronan watched it happen with a strange, detached interest, the way one watches a fox decide whether to chew through its own leg.

"You want to see us get married," Preston said slowly. "That's... that's pathetic. You still love her. All this," he waved a hand at the room, the glass, the city, "and you're still that sad little man who—"

"Choose, Preston."

"Fine." Preston swallowed. His eyes darted to the folder, to the door, to the unforgiving gray window. "Fine. I'll keep quiet. Saturday. You can come and watch. Watch her say I do to a man who can actually give her a life."

"Wonderful." Ronan stood. "One more thing. I'll need to think about how we handle the venue's payment. Green Hills Manor is very particular."

Preston hesitated at the door. "How do you know where we're getting married?"

"You put it on the invitation," Ronan said pleasantly. "I read it several times."

At the door, Preston stopped with his hand on the brass handle. He didn't turn around.

"Does Vivienne know?" His voice had lost its polish. "About any of this? About you?"

"Ask her," Ronan said.

"I will." A pause. "She's going to laugh, you know. When I tell her the little orphan thinks he's a king. She's going to laugh so hard."

"Then she'll be laughing on Saturday, at her own wedding," Ronan said. "I'd hate to steal her joy early."

Preston finally looked back. For a second, the arrogance slipped, and Ronan saw what lived underneath it: not a villain, not a mastermind, only a frightened man who had spent his whole life leaning on other people's money and had just realized the wall behind him was gone. It should have felt satisfying. It felt like watching someone step off a roof.

Then the mask snapped back into place, and Preston straightened his tie, tilted his chin, and walked out like a man who had won.

The guard escorted him out. When the heavy oak door closed, Sienna let out a slow breath.

"You gave him a way out," she said. "Why?"

"He isn't getting out. He believes he is." Ronan walked to the window, watching the rain slide down the glass. "A man who thinks he's safe stops looking for the knife. And he'll be so busy hiding the truth from Vivienne, he won't notice what I'm building around them."

"And Green Hills Manor?"

"Warrick's team closes on it tonight. The whole events group, not just the venue. Everything in it. The florist, the caterer, the band, the linens, the doves."

"Doves?"

"He put doves on the invitation." Ronan almost laughed. "I've decided they'll be mine, too."

Sienna shook her head, but she was smiling in spite of herself. "You're a terrible person."

"I've had a good teacher."

"Your grandfather?"

"You," he said, and watched the color rise in her cheeks. "You told me at the start to think in three moves. I'm just doing what you taught."

She opened her mouth to answer, but her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and her expression changed instantly, the humor draining out of her face.

"What is it?"

"Alfred." She turned the phone toward him. The message was three lines. Sir. The sanitation crew found your belongings at the county transfer yard. Half of it was destroyed. But you need to come see what was hidden in the bottom of the box. Come alone, if you can. I do not trust the line.

Ronan read it twice.

"Hidden?" he said quietly. "I never hid anything in that box in my life."

"Then who did?" Sienna asked.

Neither of them had an answer. Outside, the rain kept falling on the city that had once thrown him away.