The Heiress's Last Investment

I floated in the dead air, a spectator to my own nightmare.

Below me, rain lashed against the asphalt. A girl who wore my face was on her knees, clutching her stomach. Her body convulsed.

Red.

So much red. It spilled from her lips, mixing with the muddy water.

A circle of frat boys stood over her, laughing. One of them, a guy who spent every weekend at Theodores penthouse, kicked the gravel near her hand. "Look at her," he sneered, his voice cutting through the storm. "A gutter rat trying to sit at the high table. You really thought you could be her?"

Ivy.

She had forced herself to swallow bowl after bowl of that blistering spicy broth. Just to please him. Just to be like me.

And the man she did it for?

Theodore stood there. Immaculate. Unflinching. He looked down at her shivering form on the hospital bed later, his eyes void of anything human.

"You aren't her," he said. The words were a scalpel. Clean. Cold. "You don't have the right to eat what she eats. You don't have the right to exist in her world."

Chapter 1

The private booth was thick with steam.

Rich, savory fog rolled off the copper pot in the center of the table. Sliced Wagyu, marble-perfect, sat untouched on crystal platters.

I dipped a cluster of Enoki mushrooms into the bubbling red broth, then switched. I dropped it into the tomato broth instead. I took a bite. Slow. Deliberate.

"The tomato broth" I smiled, a small, tired thing. "It's actually better than the spicy one. Funny. You have to try new things to realize what youve been missing."

Theodore froze. His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth.

He was sharp. Too sharp. He knew how to read the silence between words.

"Hadley?" His voice dropped an octave. "Whats wrong?"

I shook my head. I widened my smile until it reached my eyes. "Nothing."

I didn't tell him about the fire in my gut. I didn't tell him that the Stage IV diagnosis was folded up in my purse.

I was dying. No point in ruining his dinner.

I turned my head toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the wind was brutal. Winter in the city didn't forgive anyone.

Thats when I saw her.

A girl. Thin coat. No scarf. She was holding a basket of wilting wildflowers, her face pale and stiff from the cold.

My breath hitched.

It was like looking in a mirror from three years ago. The same eyes. The same curve of the lip.

Ivy. The original heroine.

In my dreams, she was always painted in heavy makeup, looking cheap and broken. I never realized she started out this pure.

I stood up.

"Hadley?" Theodore asked.

I ignored him and walked out into the biting cold.

The girl looked up. Fear flashed in her eyes, followed by a spark of confusion. She saw the resemblance too.

"We look alike," I said. "Thats fate."

She blinked, shivering.

"I ordered too much food," I lied. "I hate wasting it. Come inside. Eat with us. I'll buy all your flowers."

I pointed at the gold-trimmed doors of the restaurant.

She hesitated. Hunger won.

I led her in. Theodore stared, his brow furrowing as I introduced her, but he stayed silent.

I sat her down. I started cooking meat for her.

She didn't eat; she inhaled.

When the last plate was empty, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She picked up two woven bracelets from her basketwildflowers, stems twisted together with surprising skill.

"Pretty lady," she whispered, handing them to me. "For you."

I took them. The petals were cold.

"It's freezing out there," I said softly. "Why are you on the street?"

Her expression crumpled. Shame.

"My name is Ivy," she said, her voice trembling. "I got into Wharton. Finance."

Theodores eyebrows shot up.

"But" Ivy looked down at her hands. "My mom she said girls don't need degrees. She said we need money for the house. She took my ID. She hid my social security card."

She took a shaky breath.

"She told me to drop out and waitress. But Wharton they gave me a scholarship. I just need the deposit. I just need enough for the bus ticket and the first month."

She looked up, eyes wet. "Nobody would hire me without an ID. So I picked flowers from the roadside."

I felt a dull ache in my chest. Not the cancer this time.

In the original story, Ivy was tragic. A high school dropout. A toy for Theodore after I died. "Low class," his friends called her.

I didn't know she was a genius. I didn't know her wings had been clipped before she could even fly.

I reached into my Chanel bag. I pulled out a black card.

"Wharton," I mused. "Top of the class material."

I slid the card across the marble table.

"If you graduate," I said, locking eyes with her, "you come work for Sinclair Enterprises. My family's company. Permanent contract. You never quit."

Ivy stared at the card.

"There's fifty thousand dollars on this," I said. "Consider it a signing bonus."

She gasped. The air left the room.

"I" She was hyperventilating. "I won't quit. I promise. I'll make the company billions. I swear."

I wrote down the PIN. I scribbled my personal number on a napkin. Then I emailed a digital contract to the cracked smartphone she pulled from her pocket.

"Go," I said. "Sign it and go."

She tapped the screen frantically to sign, then turned and ran. She didn't look back.

Silence returned to the booth.

Theodore finally spoke. He took a sip of his wine, looking bored. "Sinclair doesn't need charity cases, Hadley. You're too soft."

I smiled at the steam rising from the pot.

Soft? Maybe.

But if the heroine has a Wharton degree, she won't be a punching bag. She won't be a "cheap knockoff."

Sinclair Enterprises will have a shark running it.

And me?

Im dying anyway.

Everything is falling into place.

Chapter 2

The entrance to Wharton was a sea of bodies.

Today was registration day. For me, it was a victory lap. I was the alumni guest speaker, the golden child of the Sinclair dynasty returning to her kingdom.

The chauffeur opened the door of the Rolls-Royce. I stepped out.

Camera flashes popped. My black swan gown swept the pavement, a stark contrast to my pale skin. I fixed my posture. Perfect. Untouchable.

Then I heard it.

A shriek. It tore through the polite chatter of the crowd like a rusted saw.

"Ivy! You think you can just run away? You think you're better than us?"

The voice was shrill. Grating.

My stomach dropped. I knew that tone. It was the sound of ownership.

I pushed through the wall of students.

There she was.

Ivy.

She was on her knees in the middle of the courtyard. Tears streamed down her face, cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks.

A woman stood over her. Linda. She looked like a rodentbeady eyes, sharp features, cheap clothes that smelled of stale cigarettes. She had a fistful of Ivys hair, yanking her head back.

"I didn't let you go to high school so you could get ideas!" Linda screamed, spitting saliva. "I raised you to marry rich! Your brother needs a house! He needs a wife! You're supposed to pay for that, you selfish little bitch!"

The crowd gasped. Phones were out. Recording.

Ivy was shaking. A leaf in a hurricane.

"Mom, please," Ivy begged, her voice a broken whisper. "Go home. I promise once I graduate I'll help him. I'll pay for everything."

The crowd started murmuring.

"That's abuse."

"Call security."

Linda didn't care. She raised her free hand, aiming a slap right at Ivys tear-stained face.

I moved.

My hand shot out. I caught Lindas wrist mid-air. I squeezed. Hard.

"Daughters are to be cherished," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Not sold like livestock to fund your loser son."

The gentle alumni persona was gone. The predator was out.

Linda froze. She looked at my gown. The diamond choker. The Rolls-Royce behind me.

Her demeanor flipped instantly. The snarl turned into a greasy, pathetic smile.

"Oh, Miss you don't understand," Linda whined. "This is family business. Ivy is a liar. She's a whore. She found herself a sugar daddy, took the money, and left us to rot."

Ivy didn't look surprised. She looked resigned. Like she had heard this a thousand times.

"Mom," Ivy croaked. "I had fifty thousand. I gave you forty. I kept barely enough for tuition. Please."

Forty thousand dollars. Gone. And it wasn't enough.

I felt Ivy trembling behind me. I reached back and laced my fingers through hers.

I squeezed. I've got you.

I looked at Linda. I smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"I gave her that money," I announced, loud enough for the cameras to pick up. "Ivy is a top recruit for Sinclair Enterprises. When she graduates, she starts at a million a year."

Lindas eyes went wide. The dollar signs reflected in her pupils.

"A million?" She let out a breathy laugh. "Well! Why didn't you say so? Of course I support her education! Ivy, baby, make us proud!"

She turned to leave, already calculating how to spend Ivys future paycheck.

"Not so fast."

I stepped in front of her. I snapped my fingers.

Jeeves stepped forward instantly, holding a black leather briefcase. I took it. I unzipped it.

Inside was a brick of cash. One hundred thousand dollars. Bundled.

I didn't hand it to her.

I swung the bag and smashed it into her face.

Thwack.

Linda stumbled back. Her nose crunched. Blood gushed onto the pavement.

She didn't care. She saw the money spilling out.

"Kneel," I commanded. "Apologize to Ivy. And it's yours."

Linda dropped. She didn't hesitate. Blood dripped from her chin, but she was grinning like a maniac. "Ivy! I'm sorry! Momma loves you!"

She grabbed at the cash, stuffing it into her shirt.

I stared down at her. Cold.

"One more thing," I said. "Ivy's contract has a clause. A non-negotiable restriction. If she gives a single cent of her salary to family, she's fired. Immediately."

Linda froze. The color drained from her face. The million-dollar cash cow just died.

I kicked the briefcase closer to her. "But this This is yours. Right now."

I pulled a document from the bag.

"Sign this. You terminate all parental rights. You disown her. You never contact her again. You take the money, and Ivy is dead to you."

Linda didn't even read it. She grabbed the pen. "Done. Give it here."

She signed. Scrawled her name in blood and ink.

I took the paper. Then I grabbed the heavy leather bag again.

I swung it down hard on her head.

The impact made a sickening thud. Blood trickled down her forehead, but she didn't even flinch. She just stared at the cash.

I reached down, grabbed a fistful of her greasy hair, and yanked her head up to look at me.

"That," I hissed, "was for hurting my Ivy. Now get lost."

Chapter 3

The campus subreddit was in meltdown mode. The thread titled The Angel Drops a Million on the Charity Case was trending at number one.

The Angel was me. The charity case was Ivy.

I sat on the velvet sofa in the penthouse, scrolling through the comments. Across the room, the private doctor was applying antiseptic to Ivy's scalp. She winced, her shoulders hiking up to her ears.

She looked like a frightened fawn. Big eyes. Trembling limbs. Absolutely adorable.

Ivy looked up, catching my gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

"Hadley," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "That money I will pay you back. Every single cent. Even if it takes me a lifetime."

I shook my head, closing my phone. "No debts between us. Big sisters protect little sisters. That is how it works."

I knew she would be rich one day. She had the main character energy. The plot armor. Eventually, she would have more money than she could spend.

But I would not be around to see it. And I did not want her money.

After the doctor finished bandaging her head, I had to leave. It was time for the graduation speech.

The auditorium was suffocatingly hot. Thousands of faces looked up at me as I took the podium. The spotlight blinded me for a second.

I adjusted the microphone. I delivered the approved speech perfectly. The applause was polite, standard.

Then I leaned in closer to the mic. I went off-script.

"I have one last thing to say," I said, my voice echoing in the silence. "Every woman in this room is fighting a battle you know nothing about. We all bloom at different times. Do not let the rumors, the dirt, or the fragile egos of men bury you before you have a chance to grow."

In the original script, when Theodore eventually made Ivy his mistress, the world did not blame him. They called her a gold digger. A social climber. A slut. They blamed the woman for the man's weakness.

I scanned the sea of faces.

I found her.

Ivy was sitting in the back row, a white bandage stark against her dark hair. She was crying. But she was looking right at me, her eyes shining like obsidian.

We smiled at each other. A secret pact.

Ivy grew up in a house where she was less than zero. Where her brother was the sun and she was the dirt he walked on. Growing up in that toxicity usually breaks you.

But she survived.

After that speech, I officially took over the reins at Sinclair Enterprises. As the only heir, I was the law.

I threw myself into work. Distraction was the best medicine.

I started bringing Ivy to the office. I showed her the portfolios. I asked her opinions on mergers. It was supposed to be mentorship, but I was testing the plot.

Her instincts were terrifyingly good.

She pointed at a failing tech startup. We bought it. Two weeks later, they announced a breakthrough. The stock went vertical, returning astronomical gains.

She told me to pivot our real estate holdings into boutique eco-tourism. Glamping. Adventure retreats.

I listened.

The project launched and sold out in minutes. It was the hottest ticket of the season.

She was a genius.

And she was glued to my side. She did not stay in the dorms. After classes, she showed up at my penthouse with Tupperware containers.

My cancer was getting aggressive. My skin was turning the color of paper. My stomach rejected everything. The finest chefs in the city could not make me eat.

But Ivy's cooking?

Bone broth. Homemade chicken soup.

I could keep it down. It was the only thing keeping me alive.

One night, I walked out of the bathroom after scrubbing my face, trying to bring some color back to my cheeks. I went into the living room to turn off the lights.

Ivy was there. She was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees.

I sighed. She was exhausting herself taking care of a corpse.

I picked up a pink cashmere throw to cover her. Then I saw the screen.

The blue light of the browser illuminated her sleeping face. My eyes scanned the search history.

Nutrient-dense recipes for nausea.

Why is her face so pale?

Sudden weight loss in women in their 20s.

Cancer symptoms vs. eating disorders.

My heart slammed against my ribs. A cold wave washed over me.

She knew. Or she suspected.

Ivy stirred. Her eyes fluttered open. She saw me looking at the screen.

She sat up instantly, slamming the laptop shut. The snap echoed in the quiet room. Her eyes were wide, panicked.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My throat felt tight.

"Ivy," I finally whispered. "You do not have to do this."

I am dying. Why waste her golden years playing nurse to a terminal case? She should be partying. Dating. Living.

"You do not need to save me," I said.

Ivy reached out. She grabbed my hand. Her palm was hot against my ice-cold skin.

For the first time, she defied me.

"Watch me," she said. Her voice was fierce. Unshakable.

The heat from her hand traveled up my arm, settling somewhere deep in my chest. It hurt. It hurt because I wanted to live.

Chapter 4

The main character energy was undeniable. Ivy wasn't just smart and beautiful; she was kind. It made sense now.

It made sense why Theodorethe man who ruthlessly broke her in the original storyeventually fell in love with her. She had a gravity that pulled you in.

Theodore.

The name hit me like a physical blow to the sternum. A sharp, acidic ache spread through my chest.

"Go to sleep," I told Ivy, my voice sounding distant in my own ears.

I turned and walked up the stairs. My legs felt like lead. Every step was a negotiation with gravity.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, a flash of lightning split the purple sky. Thunder rattled the windowpanes. The rain starteda soft, relentless drumming.

I curled into a ball under the duvet, making myself small.

I had been avoiding him. Ghosting him, almost. Fading out of his life by degrees so that when I finally disappeared for good, the silence wouldn't be so deafening.

My golden boy. He was supposed to stand on top of the world. He was supposed to be untouchable.

But hearts are just muscle and blood. They break.

We grew up together. And now that the clock was ticking down, the urge to see him was a physical hunger.

My vision blurred. Memories of uschildhood scrapes, piano lessons, shared secretsplayed on a loop behind my eyelids. Why did fate have to be such a cruel screenwriter?

My phone lit up on the nightstand.

A single notification.

Theodore.

I unlocked it.

Hadley. I miss you.

Four words.

My throat closed up. Air refused to enter my lungs. A sob ripped its way out of my chest, violent and ugly.

Theodore was a piano prodigy. He had gold medals from Vienna to New York before he was nineteen.

But in the nightmare future where I died, the music stopped. He closed the piano lid and never opened it again. He became a machine. He took over the family empire and turned it into a monopoly in three years.

The world saw a titan of industry.

I saw the boy who sat in the dark at 3 a.m., tracing the edges of our photos until the paper wore thin, weeping silently.

I couldn't let that happen.

My fingers trembled as I typed a reply.

Private cinema. Tomorrow morning.

I forced down a few bites of breakfast and drove to the theater.

I walked into the dim room.

Theodore was already there. He was looking at the door, waiting for me. His features were carved from marble, softened only by the way he looked at me.

The silence in the room was heavy. Thick with things unsaid.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked over. "You're always early, Theodore."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "For a date with Miss Sinclair? I wouldn't dare be late."

The fog in my head cleared. Just being near him was oxygen. I sat down next to him, our shoulders brushing.

I picked the movie. A tragedy.

We watched the story unfold on the screen. The heroine died. The hero was left alone to rot in his grief.

I leaned over, keeping my voice light. Casual.

"If I'm ever gone, Theodore promise me you'll live. Get married. Have kids. Be happy."

I don't want you to mourn me. I want you to burn bright.

In the dream, he ended up with Ivy. I wouldn't hate him for that. I couldn't be selfish enough to want him lonely. I wanted someone to hold his hand so he wouldn't have to freeze his heart to survive.

Theodores hand clamped around mine.

His grip was crushing.

The air around him dropped ten degrees.

He didn't look at the screen. He looked at me. His eyes were dark, terrified. "Hadley," he rasped. "You're too young to talk like that. Don't make jokes like that."

I let out a short, breathless laugh.

I pulled him up from the seat. I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face in his chest. I held on like a drowning woman clutching a piece of driftwood.

"Relax," I mumbled into his shirt. "I'm just talking."

Later, we walked through the arts district.

We passed a "Paint Your Own Pottery" studio. Rows of unpainted white figurines lined the window.

Usually, I hated kitsch. Dust collectors.

But today, I stopped.

I dragged Theodore inside. We picked out two ridiculous figurines.

We sat by the window. The winter sun slanted through the glass, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

I watched him paint. The concentration on his face. The way the light hit his cheekbones.

I took a mental photograph. I wanted to steal this moment to take with me into the dark.

Time stopped.

I didn't think about the cancer eating me alive. I didn't think about the expiration date stamped on my forehead.

I just painted. And I loved him. One last time.

Chapter 5

The moon hung high and cold, casting jagged shadows across the driveway.

I pushed open the front door. The penthouse was silent.

Usually, Ivy would be on the sofa. Waiting. Her eyes lighting up like a puppy greeting its owner.

Tonight? Nothing but dead air.

"Ivy?"

Silence.

A cold prickle of unease started at the base of my neck and raced down my spine.

I pulled out my phone. I dialed Jeeves. "Mobilize the Sinclair security network," I ordered, my voice tight. "Find her."

The clock on the wall ticked. Nine. Ten.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to swirl in the wind. A blizzard was coming. And she was out there.

My phone buzzed.

Jeeves: Location locked. The Warehouse District, East End. Situation critical. She is armed and non-responsive. We cannot approach.

Armed?

I grabbed a coat and ran to the elevator.

The alley was a wound in the city's architecture. Dark. Smelling of rot and wet trash.

My security team stood in a semi-circle, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. They looked helpless. Big men who didn't know how to handle a frightened girl.

I pushed past them.

My breath hitched.

Rage, hot and volcanic, erupted in my chest.

Ivy was pressed into the dirty corner of the brick wall. Her clothes were shredded. Her shoulder was bare, exposed to the freezing bite of the wind.

Her hands were shaking violently.

Clutched in her grip was a box cutter. The blade was extended.

And it was dripping with fresh blood.

I stepped into the light. I kept my movements slow. Fluid.

"Ivy."

My voice was a whisper, but it cut through the wind. "It's me. Hadley."

She flinched. Her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide, blown pupils swallowing the iris. Pure, animalistic terror.

She focused on my face.

The tension in her shoulders collapsed.

Clatter.

The box cutter hit the wet pavement.

"Hadley," she choked out. Her voice was broken glass. "I I messed up again. I caused trouble."

I crossed the distance in a second. I pulled her freezing, trembling body into my arms. I didn't care about the blood. I didn't care about the grime.

"Who?" I demanded against her hair.

She told me everything. It was Hunter.

The spoiled heir of the Vance family. New Money trash. He didn't like that she was quiet. He didn't like that she ignored him. So he cornered her with his frat brothers. He wanted to "humiliate" her.

He tried to touch her.

So she put a blade in him. The others scattered like rats.

I rubbed circles on her spine, feeling the tremors wrecking her small frame.

"Hunter Vance?" I said, my voice eerily calm. "That isn't trouble, Ivy. That's a pest problem."

The Vances were loud. Ostentatious. They thought money bought class.

The Sinclairs owned the bank that held their loans.

"Let's go home."

I took her back to the penthouse. I sat with her while the private doctor cleaned her up. No serious injuries. Just bruises. And trauma.

I watched her sleep, her chest rising and falling in a jerky rhythm.

The heroine always suffers. It's the rule of the genre. But looking at her, I felt a dangerous protectiveness rise in my throat.

The next morning, I drove her to Wharton myself.

I dressed for war. A simple white blouse. A blood-red trench coat.

Ivy walked beside me, head down.

We barely crossed the campus threshold when a voice shrilled through the morning air.

"Ivy! You psycho!"

A girl stormed toward us. Paige. The guidance counselors assistant. A social climber who would sell her soul for a designer bag.

She stopped three feet away, finger pointing at Ivys face.

"You have some nerve showing up here," Paige spat. "You stabbed Hunter! His lawyers are on campus right now. You're going to prison, you gutter rat. Enjoy the"

Paige saw me.

The words died in her throat.

Her face went from red to chalk-white in a nanosecond. Her mouth hung open.

I blinked. I tilted my head, looking at her with mild curiosity.

"Don't stop," I said softly. "Finish the sentence."

Paige swallowed. I could hear the click in her throat.

"H-Hadley," she stammered. Her entire demeanor shifted. Fake deference. "I just there was an incident. Hunter Ivy the Dean is waiting."

I raised an eyebrow. "Watch your tone. And address me properly. We aren't friends."

I hooked my arm through Ivys. I felt her stiffen, then relax into my side.

"Let's go to the Dean's office," I said.

We walked through the courtyard. Students laughed, drank coffee, rushed to class. It looked like a postcard.

But I knew better. There were monsters in these halls.

And I was about to hunt them down.

Chapter 6

We stood outside the heavy oak doors. A voice boomed from inside, shaking the wood.

"She stabbed him! That girl is a psychopath! Does Wharton harbor criminals now? The Vance family is suing! We are going to bury her under so many lawsuits she will never see the sun again!"

Mitch. Hunter's father.

I didn't knock. I pushed the doors open. They slammed against the walls with a crack like a gunshot.

Every head in the room snapped toward me.

"Lies," I said. My voice was low, but it filled the space. "Pure, unadulterated fiction. The Vances really love the sound of their own voices, don't they?"

Hunter was sprawled on the leather sofa. He tried to jump up, his face twisted in rage, but the movement tore at his stitches. He collapsed back with a pathetic groan, clutching his side.

Noise. Just noise.

I ignored him. My eyes locked on Mitch.

"If you want to sue," I said, walking to the center of the room, "go ahead. Serve the papers. The Sinclair legal team is bored. They could use the exercise."

The temperature in the room dropped to zero.

Mitch froze. He looked at me, then at Ivy standing in my shadow. The realization hit him like a freight train.

Ivy wasn't just some scholarship charity case. She was mine.

Mitch had been climbing the social ladder long enough to know the rules of the jungle. You don't touch the Sinclairs. You don't even breathe in their direction if they don't give you permission.

His face went pale. He shot a venomous look at his son. You idiot. You kicked the wrong dog.

Hunter looked confused. He didn't understand why his dad was suddenly sweating.

It clicked for me then. Why Hunter thought he could touch her. I had been sick. I had been absent. The rats thought the cat was dead, so they came out to play.

Mitch cleared his throat. He forced a greasy, nervous smile.

"Ah, Miss Sinclair," he stammered, wiping his palms on his pants. "I I didn't realize Ivy was an associate of yours. Look, Hunter isn't hurt that bad. Just a flesh wound. We can settle this privately. Kids being kids, right? An apology will do."

I looked him up and down. A slow, dissecting stare.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "Your son cornered a lone girl in a dark alley with a pack of his friends. He tried to assault her. She defended herself. And you think she owes you an apology?"

I laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound.

"No. I'm making this big. Tomorrow. Court. Be there."

Hunter lost it.

"She asked for it!" he screamed from the couch, his face turning purple. "Walking around with her head down, acting like she's too good to talk to anyone! She's arrogant! That's why I cornered her! I just wanted to teach her a lesson!"

The room went silent.

He just admitted it. He attacked her because he didn't like her personality. Because her silence made him feel small.

Classic predator logic.

I opened my mouth to destroy him, but a small, cold hand touched mine.

"Hadley," Ivy whispered. She was trembling. "Please. Let's just go. It's fine."

I looked down at her. She was terrified. She just wanted the spotlight off her. She wanted to disappear.

I took a deep breath.

"No," I said gently. "It's not fine."

If I let this slide, the next Hunter Vance would think she was an easy target. I had to make an example of them. I had to mount a head on a pike.

Ivy was innocent. She didn't understand that mercy is a weakness in our world.

I turned back to the Vances.

"Save your excuses for the judge," I said.

I grabbed Ivy's hand and pulled her out of the room.

Behind us, silence.

They knew. Everyone knew. The Sinclair legal team didn't lose. They didn't just win cases; they dismantled lives.

Hunter Vance was finished.

Chapter 7