"Don't talk like that. I'll save you. I promise."

Then he turned to me, every word laced with threat.

"Amy, your family's company is about to go public, isn't it? Right at this critical stage."

"If the public finds out that the Fox heiress refused to save a dying woman, didn't even have the guts to get tested for a bone marrow match, how do you think the SEC will react?"

"Fox Group's business is none of your concern."

I looked at him coldly and let every word land like a blade.

"You want to use public opinion to pressure me? Go ahead. Try it. See who ends up destroyed."

I carried Lily straight upstairs to the nursery on the second floor and locked the door behind us.

Once I'd soothed her to sleep, I pulled out my backup phone.

I, Amy Fox, had never been a pushover.

Years ago, I'd seen something in Maxwell Gilbert. I'd handed him resources, connections, and a network that put him where he sat today.

If he wanted to bite the hand that fed him, then he had no one to blame when I bled him dry.

I dialed my private hacker assistant, K.

"K, I need you to trace the overseas transactions on an account for me."

For five years, Antonia Henson had been wiring enormous sums abroad under every excuse imaginable. She thought she'd been careful. In truth, I'd noticed a long time ago.

I just hadn't cared enough to look into it.

Now, though, the destination of that money was looking very suspicious.

Less than half an hour later, K sent the files to my encrypted inbox.

I opened the statements and scrolled through them, each line more absurd than the last.

Every single transfer ultimately funneled into an Australian account registered under the name Vivian.

And this Vivian's spending history could only be described as obscene. Day after day, it was either limited-edition handbags or chartered yachts and private parties.

Better still, K had hacked into an overseas social media platform and dug up Vivian's private account.

It was full of photos that could sear your eyes out of your skull.

The woman in the pictures wore oversized sunglasses and a bikini, draped over two blond men built like Greek statues.

Half her face was hidden, but I recognized her instantly by the signature red mole on her chin.

This was no Vivian.

This was Isabel Henson. The woman who had supposedly burned to ash in that fire.

I stared at the photos on my screen, and a cold smile curved my lips.