A chill traced my spine. “He really thought I’d just… go to jail?”

“He engineered it,” Meyers corrected gently. “He isolated you financially, kept you exhausted with freelance work, and had you sign stacks of ‘tax documents’ at the kitchen table when you were too tired to read the fine print. It’s one of the most malicious setups I’ve seen in my career.”

I looked out the windows at the Manhattan skyline.

Somewhere out there stood the Whitmore Tower — my tower — a monument of glass and steel that my Aunt Margaret had left me.

She’d seen through Daniel’s charming veneer years ago, though I’d been too blind, too in love, to listen.

She’d left the estate in a bulletproof trust, hiding my ownership until she passed, waiting to see if Daniel would prove her right. He had overachieved.