The red wine hit my face before I could even process Garrett’s hand moving.

By 1:00 AM, the central booking facility at the precinct smelled of burnt floor wax, stale coffee, and sweat.

I sat in a glass-walled conference room with Marcus Cole, who had arrived within twenty minutes of my text. Across the polished metal table lay the initial charging documents.

The door flew open, and Vivian Sterling marched in, flanked by an expensive, silver-haired defense attorney whose silk tie couldn't disguise the panic in his posture.

"Claire!" Vivian’s voice was high-pitched, vibrating with synthetic maternal warmth. She ignored the detectives and lunged toward my side of the table. "Darling, this has gone entirely too far. Look at this circus! Look at what you’ve done to our family name! Tell these officers that Garrett was simply stressed. We know how passionate he gets—it was an accident!"

Marcus Cole stood up, towering over Vivian’s attorney. "Mrs. Sterling, take two steps back from my client before I have you arrested for witness tampering."

Vivian sneered, her mask slipping completely. "Witness tampering? I am her mother-in-law! I am the matriarch of this family! Claire, you listen to me right now. Garrett’s blood pressure is dangerously high. He is sitting in a holding cell with common criminals because of your pathetic little tantrum! Do you think you can survive this socially? Do you think anyone on the Metropolitan Board will ever look at you again after this trashy spectacle?"

I slowly set my coffee cup down. I looked at Vivian—really looked at her.

Underneath the designer foundation and the perfectly dyed blonde hair, she was hollow. The Sterling family name was a hollow shell, bankrupt two generations ago, sustained entirely by marrying gullible heirs and running predatory financial grifts.

"The Metropolitan Board has already received the preliminary audit, Vivian," I said, my voice level and quiet.

Vivian blinked. "What?"

"At eleven o’clock tonight, while Garrett was ordering twelve-hundred-dollar bottles of wine on my dime, my legal team transmitted the forensic documentation of your fake interior design shell company to the District Attorney, the IRS, and the boards of every charity you chair."

Vivian’s face drained of color. "You... you did what?"

"You billed Vance Logistics ninety-four thousand dollars last month for 'corporate aesthetic consulting,'" I continued, sliding a photocopied bank transfer across the metal table. "The money was wired directly to an offshore account that purchased an emerald necklace at Sotheby’s. That wasn't a consultation, Vivian. That was wire fraud."

Her attorney quickly placed a hand on Vivian’s arm. "Vivian, do not speak. Not a word."

"You little snake," Vivian hissed, her hands curling into claws, the pearls around her neck suddenly looking like a noose. "You wouldn't have a life without us! You were a pathetic, weeping child when Arthur died! We gave you a home! We gave you Garrett!"