THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

THE BID.

The television in the tower's boardroom was seventy inches wide, and it showed only one face.

Aldric Neville stood before a podium of polished walnut, in front of a wall of flashing cameras, a picture of dignified sorrow. His white beard was neatly trimmed. His pale green eyes glistened with what looked, on camera, like real tears.

"...It is with a heavy heart that I address you today," he was saying. "Only two months ago, the Kastellan family lost its beloved patriarch. Since then, our company has been thrown into confusion by the sudden appearance of a young man who claims to be the family's long-lost heir."

Ronan stood in the boardroom with his arms crossed. Sienna sat beside him, white-knuckled. Warrick paced. Quill, the old lawyer, sat in a corner with a cup of tea he hadn't touched.

"I've known the Kastellans for forty years," Aldric continued. "I wept when Patrick's child was taken. I prayed for twenty years that he would return. And so when this young man appeared, with no proof, no witnesses, and no verifiable documents..."

"No documents?" Warrick sputtered. "We have the DNA report! It's been verified by three labs!"

"...I could only ask myself: is this truly the boy?"

A murmur went through the press. Aldric raised a hand.

"I have, this morning, obtained records from the man's own adoptive files." He held up a manila folder, dramatically. "Records from the orphanage where he was raised. They show, clearly, that a child named Ronan was abandoned on the steps of St. Bartholomew's Home at three years old.Not one. Three."

The cameras flashed like lightning.

"Impossible," Sienna breathed.

"The DNA was fabricated," Aldric said. "Manipulated by opportunists who saw a chance to exploit a grieving family. And so, as the largest independent shareholder, I am today launching a formal tender offer for every share of Kastellan Global Holdings held by the so-called heir. The board will have three days to accept or reject. And if they reject, I will petition the courts to have Mr. Ronan removed and the estate placed in trust."

He paused, wiping his eye with a silk handkerchief.

"I only want what Patrick would have wanted," he said softly. "To protect the family."

The screen cut to a reporter, who said something about market reaction. Ronan lowered the volume and stood in silence.

"That's a lie," Sienna said. "Every word."

"Which part?"

"All of it!" She threw up her hands. "The age, the orphanage. The DNA was drawn under a chain of custody signed by six doctors. He can't just..."

"He didn't fabricate the age," Ronan said slowly.

She stopped. "What?"

"The records." He was staring at the frozen face on the screen. "Sienna, listen. The orphanage forms in my file said I arrived at three. I always thought it was a clerical error. The staff said so." His voice thickened. "But what if it wasn't? What if someone, a long time ago, wanted the records to say three? So that if I ever came back, the gap would look like fraud?"

Nobody spoke.

"Twenty years," Quill murmured, lowering his cup. "He was planning this for twenty years."

"How did he get the files?" Warrick demanded. "Those records are sealed. They sit in one place. In the marriage license folder. In..."

He trailed off.

Ronan closed his eyes.

"Coleman."

The word fell in the room like a stone.

"He called someone the night before the wedding," Sienna said, remembering. "The man on the porch, the guard said. Someone on a burner phone."

"Margaux held my adoption papers." Ronan opened his eyes, and they were very calm. "She took them the day she made me sign the divorce. I thought nothing of it. I thought it was just petty spite."

"They sold you out," Warrick said. "For money."

"They were being paid to hand over anything that would tie me to the story."

"Ronan." Sienna stepped close. "The board has three days. If they vote to accept Aldric's offer..."

"I know."

"You'd lose everything. Everything, Ronan. The company. The estate. Even Emeric's hospital bills."

He picked up the remote and turned the television off. The screen went black, and in its dark surface, he saw his own reflection. Tired. Rumpled. Unrecognizable.

"Then we have three days," he said.

"To do what?"

"To prove that I'm the heir. To find proof that Aldric is a murderer. And to keep everybody I care about alive." He turned. "Mr. Quill. You said Harold Brentford left me a letter?"

"Yes."

"Read it to me. Now."

Quill hesitated. He looked at the others, then set down his cup. His hands, spotted and trembling, unsealed the envelope.

"'Ronan,'" he began. "'You will not remember the day we met properly, because you saved my life and I was too busy dying to be gracious. But I remember every detail. And so I must tell you the truth. It was no accident that I was on that road. I had been following you for six years.'"

Ronan's pulse skipped.

"'I was a partner of Aldric Neville, long ago. I know what he is. When Patrick Kastellan's car went over the cliff, I was in Aldric's office. I heard the call. Afterward, I made a decision that I will regret for the rest of my life. I said nothing. I told myself the child was dead.'"

The lawyer's voice faltered. He drew a breath and pressed on.

"'Then, six years ago, I saw a boy in an orphanage file with a hawk-shaped birthmark on his left shoulder. And I knew.'"

Instinctively, Ronan's hand went to his left shoulder.

"'I could not take you back. Aldric's spies were everywhere. So I did the only thing I could. I placed you inside my own family, where nobody would look, and I watched over you from a distance. I gave you my granddaughter's hand because it was the only way to keep you close. I hoped she would come to love you. She did not. For that, I am sorry.'"

Sienna had gone completely still.

"'If you are reading this, my time is over, and the truth is yours to use. Forgive an old coward. Take back what is yours. And if my granddaughter comes to you one day in trouble, remember that she was not born cruel. She was raised by a woman who taught her to be afraid.'"

The letter ended there. Silence filled the boardroom.

Ronan stood at the window, the city glittering below him, his reflection floating above it like a ghost. The whole marriage. The whole four years. All of it a deliberate act, the last gift of a dying man who had loved him and hadn't dared say so.

He didn't cry. But something cracked deep inside him, and for a moment the room seemed very far away.

"Ronan," Sienna said gently.

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"No," he said. "I'm not."

His phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with the name of a security guard at the mansion. Ronan answered.

"Sir," said the guard. His voice was low, urgent. "There's a woman at the gate. She's soaked to the bone. She won't leave. She says she needs to speak with you. She says she has information about Mr. Neville."

"Who?"

The guard hesitated. "It's your wife, sir."