Nathan was not a brilliant investor.
He was a fraud.
He had been moving millions in client funds through shell companies, hiding losses, falsifying reports, and redirecting money to fund his lifestyle, Brooke’s luxury apartment, and Eleanor’s endless spending.
I picked up my encrypted desk phone and looked at the clock.
11:45 p.m.
I dialed a private number.
It rang twice.
“Rebecca,” I said when the line connected.
Rebecca Sloan was sixty-one years old, terrifyingly calm, and one of the most ruthless corporate and divorce attorneys in the country. She did not negotiate unless negotiation was more painful for the other side than defeat.
“I assume the wedding reception was educational?” Rebecca asked, her dry voice filling the room.
“Eleanor seated Nathan’s mistress next to me.”
A pause.
Then Rebecca said, “Idiots.”
“They brought it into the light.”
“Are you safe, Mara?”
“I’m at the office. I have the drives. I have the folder.”
I looked at the ivory-wrapped box resting on my desk.
“It’s time, Rebecca. Burn it down.”
“I’ve been waiting six months for that sentence,” she said. “I already woke the federal judge ten minutes ago. Emergency injunctions are ready. The global asset freeze will hit the banking systems at exactly six tomorrow morning.”
I hung up and leaned back in my chair, watching the city glitter beneath the rain.
As dawn began to pale the skyline, I knew exactly what was happening across town.
Nathan was probably waking up in some luxury hotel suite with Brooke, hungover, irritated, and groggily reaching for his phone to order an absurd room-service breakfast.
He had no idea his black credit card was about to decline.



