Noah buried his face in Maren’s sweater. Nathan didn’t hide — he glared up at the man with the exact stubborn defiance that had made me a billionaire.

I brought my palm up against the lead man’s chest, hard enough to stop his advance dead. The sound of it carried in the quieted terminal, and the third operative’s hand dropped toward his belt.

“Touch them,” I said, my face inches from his, “and I will personally dismantle every corporate entity my mother uses to fund your paychecks.”

He paused, gray eyes running the math, and neither advanced nor retreated. The situation had changed under him — from an asset recovery to a direct fight with the primary heir.

“Your mother anticipated your emotional instability, Elliot,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear it. He tapped the tablet, and a document bloomed onto the screen bearing the seal of the Clark County Family Court.

“An emergency protective custody order has already been filed. These children are listed as high-risk flight individuals.”