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

While the corporate cleanup was underway, Vivian Sterling was sitting in the parlor of her three-million-dollar Upper East Side co-op, frantically making calls to every high-society acquaintance she had cultivated over three decades.

Every call went straight to voicemail.

Her society friends—women who had fawned over her at opera benefits and charity galas—had already seen the morning headlines: *STERLING DYNASTY CRUMBLES: HEIR ARRESTED IN LUXURY RESTAURANT SCANDAL, MOTHER IMPLICATED IN FRAUD.*

The door buzzer rang sharply.

Vivian rushed to the intercom, convinced it was Julian with news of Garrett’s bail. "Julian? Did you post the bond? Is Garrett out?"

"United States Marshals Service," a flat, mechanical voice responded through the speaker. "Open the door, Mrs. Sterling."

Vivian’s breath caught in her throat. She cracked the heavy door open, keeping the brass security chain attached.

Standing in the hallway were two federal marshals in tactical vests, accompanied by Marcus Cole and a building manager holding a master key ring.

"What is this?" Vivian demanded, her voice cracking with fury. "This is private property! You have no right to disturb me!"

"Mrs. Sterling," the lead marshal said, holding up an official notice of federal seizure. "This property was purchased using proceeds traceable to the wire fraud indictment currently pending against Garrett Sterling. Furthermore, the deed to this apartment is held under Vance Heritage Capital, not your personal name."

"That's a lie!" Vivian shrieked, her knuckles turning white against the door frame. "Arthur Vance promised me this apartment! Garrett arranged it!"

"Arthur Vance had been dead for six months when this deed was forged, Vivian," Marcus Cole stated with brutal calm. "You have sixty minutes to pack two suitcases of personal clothing. All jewelry, artwork, and furnishings purchased after January 2021 are subject to federal forfeiture and remain sealed under court order."

"You can't do this to me!" Vivian screamed, slamming her palms against the door. "I am an old woman! I have nowhere to go! Claire! Where is that ungrateful little brat? Tell her to come here and face me!"

"Mrs. Vance is currently running a multi-billion-dollar corporation," Marcus replied. "She doesn't have time for you. You have fifty-nine minutes."

The marshals pushed the door open, snapping the brass chain with a quick, decisive shove.

Vivian stumbled backward onto the Persian rug she had bought with stolen trust money. She looked around her opulent home—the crystal chandeliers, the gilded mirrors, the silver tea sets—all of it slipping through her fingers like sand.