The car pulled up to the Foley estate. It was a sprawling gothic mansion that loomed against the grey sky.

Blake exited before the driver could open the door.

She marched through the double doors.

In the drawing room, her father, Fulton, and his wife, Connie, were having tea.

"You disgrace!" Fulton bellowed, standing up. His napkin fell to the floor.

Connie looked at her with faux pity. "Oh, poor dear. Having an episode?"

They were trying to frame her escape as a mental breakdown. Standard procedure.

Blake ignored them. She walked to the head of the table and sat in Fulton's chair.

She poured herself a cup of tea from the silver service.

"This tea is cold," she said.

She tipped the cup. The brown liquid poured onto the Persian rug.

Connie gasped. "That's a silk rug!"

"And I'm a human being, not a broodmare," Blake replied.

Fulton slammed his hand on the table. The china rattled.

"You go back to Hardin now! He is threatening to pull the merger!"

"Let him," Blake said calmly.

"I'm here for my mother's trust fund."

Silence descended on the room. Heavy and suffocating.

Fulton turned red. "That money is managed by the family."

"Managed? Or embezzled?" Blake asked sharply.

"I want full access. Today."

"Or what?" Connie sneered. "You have no power."

Blake pulled a folded paper from her coat pocket. It was a printout of a bank routing number she had recalled from memory.

"This routes to the Caymans, doesn't it, Father?"

Fulton's eyes bulged. "How did you..."

"I have the ledger," Blake lied smoothly.

"I know about the tax evasion on the import business."

Connie looked at Fulton nervously. Her hand went to her pearls.

"You wouldn't dare," Fulton hissed.

Blake leaned forward. Her eyes were dark.

"Try me. I have nothing left to lose."

Fulton paced the room. His hands were shaking.

"You are ungrateful. We raised you!"

"You isolated me and sold me," Blake corrected.

"The IRS offers fifteen percent to whistleblowers," she added casually.

"Do the math, Connie. That's more than the trust fund."

Connie grabbed Fulton's arm. Her nails dug into his suit jacket.

"Give it to her," she whispered loudly. "We can't afford an audit right now."

Fulton glared at Blake with pure hatred.

"Fine. But you are cut off from the family."

"Disowned. No inheritance. No name," Fulton spit.

"Draft the transfer," Blake commanded.

Fulton called his private banker on speakerphone. His voice trembled with suppressed rage.

Blake dictated the account number. A generic secure account she had set up in her mind years ago.

She watched the confirmation on Fulton's iPad.

Ten million dollars transferred out of the family pool.

"It's done. Now get out," Fulton said.

"Not yet. I need the patent deeds," Blake said.

"Mother's inventions. The biometric sensors."

"Those belong to Foley Corp!" Fulton argued.

"They belong to the creator. Give me the physical deeds."

Fulton walked to the wall safe behind a painting of a hunt. He punched in the code.

He threw a leather folder at her. It slid across the table.

Blake caught it. She checked the contents. The schematics were there.

"Pleasure doing business," she smirked.

"You are dead to us," Connie said.

"I was dead the moment you married him," Blake replied.

A notification pinged on Blake's phone-the one she had recovered from Lee.

The money had cleared.

She stood up, clutching the folder.

"One last thing," she said, stopping at the door.

"Tell Carissa I said 'Happy Honeymoon'."