The air inside the Hayes Estate was thick with tension.
Emily stood near the fireplace; fingers curled tightly around the glass of whiskey James had poured her—not that she’d taken a sip. She just needed something to hold on to. Something solid. Something real.
But nothing felt real anymore.
Margaret Sterling’s words still rang in her ears.
"They don’t just want the vault. They want you dead because of what your father knew."
Her father, Christopher Hayes, had built an empire. But more than that—he had kept secrets. Dangerous ones. And now, she was paying the price for them.
The study was dimly lit, the golden glow from the fireplace casting flickering shadows against the walls. Bookshelves lined the room, their heavy wooden frames holding the weight of knowledge, of history—of lies.
