My husband forgot to end the call, and I overheard him telling my best friend he planned to divorce me the second my father’s ten million dollars was deposited into his company account.

On Thursday morning, the grand conference suite on the 40th floor of the Manhattan Federal Courthouse was bathed in the harsh, clear light of an autumn sky.

Julian Sterling sat at the end of the long mahogany table. At seventy-two years old, he looked like a polished, predatory remnant of a bygone corporate era. He wore a bespoke Italian suit, dark gold-rimmed glasses, and a smug, condescending smile. Beside him sat four senior partners from Wall Street’s most ruthless defense firms.

Sitting across from them were Rachel, Marcus Vance, Tessa, Maren, Evan, and myself.

"Mrs. Vance," Sterling began, his voice smooth and cultured as he folded his hands over a leather binder. "I am pleased that good sense has prevailed. My clients are prepared to offer a permanent non-disclosure release. In exchange for the complete surrender of the satellite drives and Hunter’s affidavit, Vance-Apex Global will grant your Center a five-million-dollar charitable gift and waive all secondary property claims."

I looked at Sterling. I saw the same cold, sociopathic entitlement that had lived inside Uncle Charles and Hunter—the belief that human lives were merely lines on a balance sheet.

"We didn't come here to accept a gift, Julian," I said softly, my voice calm and absolute.

Sterling’s smile wavered slightly. "Excuse me?"

Rachel tapped a button on her tablet terminal.

The floor-to-ceiling digital screens in the conference room illuminated, displaying high-definition 4K scans of the offshore Panamanian wire transfers, the forged surrogacy authorizations from 2002, and the satellite location logs tracking Sterling’s secret accounts in Zurich.

And then, an audio file began to play through the room's speakers.

It was Hunter’s voice, recorded in the prison hospital three days before his death:

"Julian Sterling took thirty percent of every illegal embryo transfer executed by Charles's network. He personally authorized the creation of Maya Vance in 2002 to serve as his secondary collateral. He keeps the original ledger in his private safe in Chicago under account number 8912. If I die, give this recording to my wife. She is the only one strong enough to finish what I broke."

Sterling’s face turned ghastly white. He jumped out of his leather executive chair, knocking his gold pen onto the table.

"This... this is an illegal recording!" Sterling shrieked, pointing an angry, shaking finger at Rachel. "This is inadmissible! My attorneys will have this suppressed in five minutes!"

"The recording was authenticated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation two hours ago, Mr. Sterling," a commanding voice announced from the doorway.

The heavy double doors of the conference suite swung open. Special Agent David Miller, flanked by four armed federal marshals and two state police detectives, stepped into the room.

"Julian Sterling," Agent Miller declared, pulling a red-stamped federal warrant from his jacket. "You are under arrest for First-Degree Human Trafficking Conspiracy, RICO Wire Fraud, Corporate Extortion, and Child Endangerment."

Sterling stumbled backward against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, his face contorted in sheer, unadulterated terror as his high-priced attorneys immediately closed their briefcases and stepped away from him.

Two marshals stepped forward, grabbing Sterling’s arms and twisting them behind his back.

CLICK-CLACK.

The heavy steel handcuffs locked tightly around his wrists.

As the marshals dragged the weeping, cursing old man down the central corridor in chains—paraded past news camera crews filming from the lobby below—Evan stepped up beside me.

He looked at the open doorway, then looked at me, a quiet, radiant smile touching his lips.