The heavy oak doors of the St. Jude Cathedral loomed before me like the gates of a forgotten purgatory

The sun was high over Manhattan when the federal arrest warrants were executed, but down on Wall Street, the sky above Vance Industries looked like it was choked with smoke.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass of Harrison’s penthouse, watching through high-powered binoculars as a convoy of black SUVs and unmarked federal vans converged on the soaring glass-and-steel monolith bearing my family’s name. Agents in heavy tactical gear poured out of the vehicles, storming the revolving glass doors with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

For twenty years, that building had been a monument to my father’s tyranny—a place where human lives were traded like commodities, where my mother’s memory had been erased, and where I had been discarded like a broken tool. Now, the federal raid was playing out like a live-action execution on every major news network in the country. Split-screen broadcasts showed reporters breathless with scandal: *Vance Industries Accused of Multi-Million Dollar Fraud; CEO Arthur Vance Implicated in Elaborate Identity Fraud Scheme.*

"They're taking him out through the loading dock," Harrison said, stepping up beside me and handing me a cup of black coffee. His movements were easy, but his eyes were locked on the monitor on the wall, where a live drone feed was broadcasting the raid from above.

I took the cup, my fingers brushing against his. The coffee was bitter and hot, grounding me in the reality of the moment. On the screen, I saw my father—his immaculate tuxedo now rumpled, his hair disheveled, handcuffs biting into his wrists—being shoved into the back of a federal transport van by two burly marshals. He looked smaller, frail, and utterly bewildered, a pathetic little man stripped of his empire in less than twenty-four hours.

"Where is Chloe?" I asked, my voice steady, though my pulse raced at the sight of my father's downfall.

"Back at the family estate in the Hamptons," Harrison replied, taking a sip of his own drink. "Or what’s left of it. Every bank account, trust fund, and credit card tied to the Vance name was frozen at 9:00 AM. Her designer dresses, her luxury cars, her social club memberships—all seized as proceeds of financial fraud."

I watched as the federal agents hauled boxes of physical files and hard drives out of the Vance Industries lobby. "You didn't just ruin them, Harrison. You obliterated them."

"You don't fight a war by taking half-measures, Captain," Harrison said, his tone flat and unyielding. He turned his head to look at me, his golden-brown eyes softening just a fraction. "Your father thought he could bury you and sweep the dirt under the rug. He forgot that titanium doesn't decompose."

The intercom on the mahogany desk chimed softly.

"Sir," Miller’s voice crackled through the speaker. "We have a visitor in the lobby. Refuses to leave. Demanding an audience with Mr. Sterling... and Captain Vance."

Harrison raised an eyebrow, exchanging a brief, knowing glance with me. "Name?"