Charla scoffed, setting her champagne glass down with a sharp clink. "Rude. I should have you fired."

"You can try," Cali said coolly. "But this is my house."

Charla rolled her eyes. She reached into her purse and pulled out a black velvet box. "Whatever. Just appraise this. I'm insuring it for a million. It needs to be official."

She slid the box across the table.

Cali reached out. Her gloved fingers brushed the velvet. She opened it.

The air left her lungs.

Inside sat an emerald brooch. It was shaped like a fern, encrusted with tiny diamonds.

It wasn't just any brooch. It was the Morton family heirloom. It was the piece Cailin's mother had worn on her wedding day. It was supposed to be in the safe in the penthouse-the safe Cailin had left behind when she fled.

Charla gloated, watching Cali stare at the jewelry. "It's gorgeous, isn't it? A gift from my fiancé. Well, technically, he hasn't proposed officially yet, but he will. Any day now."

Cali's hands began to tremble. She clenched them into fists to hide it.

She stole it. Hilliard would never have given this away. Not this. Which meant Charla had taken it, looting her home, picking through the bones of Cailin's life like a vulture.

Cali picked up a jeweler's loupe. She brought the brooch closer to her eye. She knew exactly what to look for-a tiny chip on the emerald's underside, from when her grandmother had dropped it in 1950.

She turned it over.

There it was. The chip.

It was real.

"The setting is dated," Cali said. Her voice was ice. "Mid-century. Clunky. Not very... fashionable for a woman of your taste."

Charla bristled. "It's vintage. It belonged to Hilliard's late wife. The crazy one."

Cali gripped the loupe so hard the metal dug into her palm. "Crazy?"

Charla laughed, a light, tinkling sound that made Cali want to vomit. "Oh, yes. Mental instability. She killed her own baby, you know. Terminated it at seven months just to spite him. Then ran off and died in a ditch somewhere. Tragic, really."

The room spun. The red haze of rage clouded Cali's vision. Killed her baby? Is that what he told people? Is that the lie they spun?

Cali dropped the brooch back into the box. CLACK.

"I cannot appraise this," Cali said.

Charla stood up. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am?"

"I know exactly who you are," Cali said. The double meaning hung heavy in the air. "This piece carries... bad energy. Stolen energy."

Charla's face turned red. "How dare you! I-"

The door to the suite opened.

Hilliard walked in. He looked annoyed, checking his watch.

"Charla, security says something happened to the car. We need to leave. Now."

Charla's face instantly transformed. The anger vanished, replaced by a trembling lip and wide, teary eyes.

"Hill!" she cried, rushing to him. "This woman! She insulted me! She said the brooch has bad energy!"

Hilliard didn't look at Charla. He looked past her, straight at the woman in the mask.

Cali stood frozen.

Hilliard stared. The posture. The way she held her hands. The defiant tilt of her chin.

It hit him again. That sense of déjà vu.

"Have we met?" Hilliard asked. He stepped closer, ignoring Charla clinging to his arm.

Cali's heart hammered against her ribs. She took a step back.

"I appraise art, Mr. Holloway," she said. "Not people. Good evening."

She turned to leave.

Cali moved toward the door, desperate to escape the suffocating proximity of the man she had once loved.

Hilliard sidestepped, blocking her path. He didn't do it aggressively, but with the casual arrogance of a man who was used to people stopping for him.

"Wait," he said. "My fiancée is upset. Apologize."

He didn't care about Charla's feelings. He just wanted to hear her voice again. There was something in the cadence, the rhythm... it scratched at a door in his mind he had welded shut five years ago.

Cali stiffened. She looked up at him through the eyeholes of the mask. Her green eyes-usually so warm-were shards of glass.

"I owe no apologies for the truth," she said.

Charla gasped behind him. "See? She's impossible!"

Hilliard ignored Charla completely. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a checkbook.

"I need a private broker for my estate," he said, his eyes boring into Cali's. "Most people here are sycophants. You have... fire."

He pulled a gold pen from his pocket, signed a check, and left the amount line blank.

He held it out to her.

"Name your price," he said. "Exclusively. I want you to manage my collection."

Cali looked at the check. It was freedom. It was power. It was a trap.

"I am not for sale, Mr. Holloway," she said.

She knocked his hand aside. As she brushed past him, her bare arm grazed his hand.

The brief contact was nothing, a flicker of warmth, but Hilliard's attention was snagged by something else. A movement. As she pulled away, her left hand came up defensively, and he saw her thumb instinctively rub the bare skin of her ring finger-a ghost of a gesture for a ring long gone. A gesture he'd seen Cailin make a thousand times when she was nervous.

He gasped. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Reflex.

"Who are you?" he whispered. The intensity in his voice was terrifying.

Cali panicked.

She lifted her foot, clad in a sharp Stiletto, and stomped down hard on the toe of his expensive Italian leather shoe.

"Argh!" Hilliard grunted, pain shooting up his leg. His grip loosened.

Cali yanked her arm free and sprinted out the door, down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

Hilliard stood there, rubbing his wrist. He looked down at his scuffed shoe.

He smiled.

It was a dark, twisted smile. A smile that hadn't touched his face in half a decade.

"She stomped on me," he muttered. "Interesting."

"She assaulted you!" Charla shrieked. "Call the police! Have her arrested!"

Hilliard's smile vanished. He turned to Charla, his face cold again. "Be quiet, Charla. Go to the car."

He walked out, leaving her fuming.

He took the elevator down to the garage.

His driver and a cluster of security guards were standing around the Maybach.

Hilliard stopped. He stared at the hood.

DEADBEAT.

The pink letters were screaming at him.

"Deadbeat?" Hilliard whispered. The word felt like a slap.

"We're scrubbing the tapes, sir," the head of security said nervously. "But... we found this."

The guard held out a clear plastic evidence bag.

Inside was a small, black velvet hair ribbon.

Hilliard took the bag. He stared at the ribbon. It was tiny. Delicate.

"A child?" Hilliard asked. "A child did this?"

"Seems so, sir. The vents were compromised."

Hilliard looked at the graffiti again. A child calling him a deadbeat.

He pocketed the ribbon.

He pulled out his phone. "Gavin. Pull the security tapes for the entire building. I want to know who that broker is. And I want to know who that kid belongs to."

Cali burst into the secure playroom, slamming the door and locking it.

She ripped the mask off her face, gasping for air as if she had been underwater. Her face was flushed, her heart racing so fast it hurt.

"We leave. Now," she commanded.

Aron and Davy were already packing their gear into their backpacks. They looked guilty.

"Where is Elia?" Cali asked, scanning the room.

The boys exchanged a look.

"She... she dropped her ribbon," Aron mumbled. "She went back to get it."

Cali felt the blood drain from her face. "She's out there? With him?"

"She said she'd be right back!" Davy defended.

Cali grabbed her phone and dialed.

"Hey beautiful," a smooth, baritone voice answered. "Ready to say yes to the ring?"

"Cut the crap, Kegan," Cali snapped. "Hilliard is here. Elia is missing in the building."

The playful tone on the other end vanished instantly. "Shit."

She heard the furious sound of typing. "I'm scrubbing the building's feeds now," Kegan said. "Accessing the garage cams... damn it. Hilliard's team is already downloading the buffer."

"Can you stop them?"

"I can corrupt the files, but I need two minutes," Kegan warned. "If he sees her face on those tapes..."

"I have to go find her," Cali said.

"Put the mask back on, Cali," Kegan ordered. his voice hard. "Don't let him see Cailin. If he sees Cailin, the war starts today."

Cali shoved the mask back onto her face. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost poked her eye out.

"Stay here," she told the boys. "Do not move."

"I'll jam their radios," Aron said, opening his laptop again. His face was set in grim determination.

Cali ran back into the hallway. She moved through the shadows, avoiding the main corridors.

She reached the loading dock area. It was a cavernous space filled with crates and shipping containers.

"Comb the area!" Hilliard's voice echoed off the concrete walls. "The kid can't have gone far. Look for paint on their hands!"

He was hunting.

Cali crouched behind a forklift. She scanned the room.

There.

Behind a stack of wooden crates near the exit ramp. A small flash of velvet.

Elia was huddled there, frozen. She was watching Hilliard pace back and forth like a caged tiger.

Hilliard turned. He spotted the movement.

"Hey! You there!" Hilliard called out.

Cali lunged forward, but stopped. She was too far away. If she ran out now, she'd be tackled by his guards.

Elia stepped out from behind the crates. She lifted her chin. She didn't cry. She looked exactly like Hilliard did when he was facing a hostile board takeover.

Hilliard strode toward the child.

Cali watched in horror as father and daughter faced off for the first time.