The ultrasound pictures were still warm from my fingers when my mother-in-law threw them into the kitchen trash.

News travels fast, even across the misty waters of the San Juan Islands, and in the corporate boardrooms of Seattle, the disappearance of Clara and Roman Rossi had not gone unnoticed. For weeks, the remaining members of the Rossi family—led by Julian, Margaret’s slippery, ambitious nephew who had expected to inherit the entire estate—had been tearing their hair out trying to locate the Zurich deed. Back in Seattle, Julian’s rage was reaching a boiling point. In a sleek, glass-walled conference room overlooking downtown Seattle, Julian slammed his fist down onto the polished mahogany table, making the crystal water carafes dance. "What do you mean you can’t find the deed?!" Julian roared at his terrified corporate lawyer, a sweaty man named Henderson who was frantically tapping away at a sleek tablet. "It has to be registered somewhere! My aunt couldn’t just give away Cliffwood Manor to a nobody retail clerk and her struggling architect husband!" Henderson adjusted his glasses, his hands trembling visibly. "Mr. Rossi, the legal transfer originated from a Swiss notary firm with absolute diplomatic immunity regarding estate execution. According to international property law, the title is ironclad. Clara Rossi is the sole legal owner of Cliffwood Manor and all associated offshore holdings linked to the estate." Julian’s face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer. "Offshore holdings?" he whispered, the greed gleaming sharply in his eyes. "You're telling me there's more than just a house on that rock?" "We... we suspect there are dormant accounts, Julian," Henderson stammered, swallowing hard. "Accounts containing capital that was never declared to the primary family trust. If Clara accesses those funds, she could theoretically buy out our largest shareholders and hostile-takeover the entire primary board from underneath us." Julian leaned back in his leather executive chair, a dark, calculating smile spreading slowly across his thin lips. He had spent his entire life waiting to step into Margaret’s shoes, and he was not about to let some pregnant nobody from the suburbs steal his birthright. "Pack your bags, Henderson," Julian purred, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. "We’re going on a little island trip. It’s time we pay my dear cousin Roman and his brilliant wife a visit." Little did Julian know, the fortress on the cliffs was not a helpless target. It was a fully loaded battleship waiting for an enemy to cross its bow.