Turn the page and step into the next chapter of this unforgettable story.

-4

The rain had picked up by the time I stepped out of the courthouse steps into the damp Chicago afternoon. The gray concrete plaza glistened under the grey sky, and the distant roar of city traffic felt like the background noise of a world that had suddenly righted itself.

I didn't take a cab. I walked three blocks to the corner coffee shop—a small, unassuming place where I used to sit and read while Garrick was busy at his country club meetings, pretending to be a self-made titan of industry. I ordered a hot black coffee, sat by the window, and watched the sterile rush of commuters hurrying past through the downpour.

My phone buzzed against the wooden table.

It was an automated security notification from our primary residential property—the four-million-dollar penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan that Garrick and Cordelia had so graciously informed me I would be evicted from with nothing more than the clothes on my back.

Access Log Update: Master biometric override initiated. User: Garrick Sterling.

A faint smile touched the corners of my mouth. They were going back to the penthouse, expecting to drown their sorrows in vintage scotch, stroke their bruised egos, and plot their next desperate legal maneuver.

They were about to discover that eviction notices don't just apply to commercial boutiques.

I finished my coffee, stood up, and hailed a town car.

When the black sedan pulled up outside the grand limestone entrance of the luxury high-rise tower an hour later, the doorman—a polite, older man named Thomas who had always offered me a kind word when Garrick wasn't looking—hurried over with an oversized umbrella.

"Afternoon, Ms. Ashby," Thomas said, his voice dropping into a respectful murmur as he shielded me from the rain. "I heard about... well, I heard about the court proceedings. Word travels fast in this building."

"Thank you, Thomas," I said, stepping into the warm, marble-clad lobby. "Has anyone else arrived?"

"Mr. Sterling and his mother came through about twenty minutes ago," Thomas said, hesitating slightly, a grim satisfaction playing in his eyes. "They... well, ma'am, they looked rather upset. They tried to bring a moving crew up to clear out the master suite, but the security management team stopped them at the service elevator."

"Good," I nodded. "Because as of noon today, the penthouse unit is classified as an active forensic crime scene under temporary corporate receivership. Nobody moves a single fork out of that apartment without my express written consent."

"Understood, Ms. Ashby. I'll make sure the front desk locks down all service access," Thomas replied smartly.

I rode the private elevator up to the forty-second floor, the digital floor numbers ticking upward in crisp white LED digits: 38, 39, 40, 41, 42.

When the doors chimed and slid open, I stepped directly into the sprawling, minimalist foyer of the penthouse. The walls of white venetian plaster and floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the storm-tossed lake below.

And standing in the center of the living room, surrounded by unpacked designer garment bags and half-empty packing boxes, were Garrick and Cordelia.

They looked like royalty stripped of their crowns, standing amidst the rubble of a fallen kingdom.

"How did you get in here?!" Garrick roared, spinning around as the elevator doors chimed. He looked unhinged, his silk tie ripped loose, his hair disheveled, holding an open bottle of twelve-year single malt scotch in his hand. "The digital locks on the service elevator were supposed to be reprogrammed by our tech team!"

"Your tech team, Garrick, was on the payroll of Sterling & Sterling Holdings," I said, stepping out of the private elevator and letting my leather tote bag drop softly onto the marble floor. "Which means their employment contracts were terminated the moment Judge Blackwood signed the corporate receivership order."

Cordelia stepped out from the hallway leading to the master suite, her face pale, her posture rigid. She looked at me with a hatred so pure and concentrated it felt like physical heat.

"You think you've won, you ungrateful little thief," Cordelia hissed, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "This is a temporary administrative glitch. Arthur Vance is filing an emergency writ of supersedeas with the appellate court as we speak. By tomorrow morning, the freeze will be lifted, and you'll be thrown out of this building with nothing more than the clothes on your back."

I walked slowly over to the wet bar, poured myself a glass of iced water, and took a slow, refreshing sip before looking back at her.

"Cordelia," I said quietly, using her first name deliberately to strip away whatever illusion of matriarchal authority she thought she still commanded. "Arthur Vance isn't filing an appellate writ. He spent the last hour in a federal interrogation room trying to cut a non-prosecution deal with the U.S. Attorney by handing over your personal offshore accounts in the Isle of Man."

Garrick dropped his scotch bottle.