The next morning, the bright Manhattan sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Plaza Hotel's iconic dining room. Alycia had brought Julian here for a special welcome-home brunch, hoping to erase the stress of the previous day's travel.

They were walking through the opulent lobby, Julian holding tightly to her hand, when the crowd in front of them parted aggressively.

Four men in black suits were physically shoving hotel guests out of the way to clear a path.

Alycia looked up. Her footsteps faltered.

Walking right down the center of the cleared path was Rolf Gillespie. He looked older, his face harder, but the arrogant sneer was exactly the same. Clinging to his arm was Seraphina, draped in a ridiculous, floor-length mink coat despite the mild weather.

The memory of the freezing rain and the torn papers hit Alycia so hard she felt physically sick. Her chest tightened.

Rolf stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at Alycia. His eyes flicked over her expensive Tom Ford suit and the Birkin bag. A flash of genuine shock crossed his face. He expected her to be dead, or at least begging on the streets.

Seraphina recovered faster. Her lips twisted into a toxic, plastic smile. She let go of Rolf's arm and strutted forward, her hips swaying.

She pitched her voice loudly, making sure the people around them stopped to listen.

"Well, well," Seraphina practically yelled. "If it isn't the family disgrace. I see you brought your little bastard with you. Did you ever figure out who the father was, or were there too many men to count?"

Julian shrank back. He grabbed Alycia's leg, hiding his face against her thigh. He could feel the pure evil radiating from the woman.

Rolf looked down his nose at Alycia. He let out a loud grunt of disgust. "You have no shame. Parading that mistake around in public."

Alycia didn't shrink. She didn't cry. Her spine snapped straight. She pushed Julian gently behind her calves, shielding him completely.

She let out a short, cold laugh.

"You want to talk about shame, Rolf?" Alycia's voice was ice. It cut through the ambient noise of the hotel lobby. "Let's talk about the shell company Seraphina set up in Delaware to siphon funds from the family trust right before you kicked me out."

Seraphina's plastic smile shattered. Her eyes widened in absolute panic. The color drained from her heavily rouged cheeks.

Rolf's face turned violently red. The veins in his neck bulged. He stepped forward, raising his voice to a roar to cover his wife's guilt. "Shut your mouth! You are a lying whore!"

People were stopping now. Cell phones were coming out. Cameras started recording.

Alycia took a step forward. She closed the distance between herself and her father. She looked him dead in the eye.

"I am a top-tier creative director and public figure in Manhattan," Alycia said, her voice low and deadly. "If you or your thief of a wife ever speak my name again, I will subpoena your financial records and drag you through the New York Supreme Court. I will take everything you have."

Rolf's mind snapped. He was a man who ruled by fear. He could not handle being threatened by the daughter he threw away. He could not handle the public humiliation.

Seraphina grabbed his arm, whispering frantically. "She's trying to steal our money, Rolf! Stop her!"

Alycia looked at them with pure disgust. "Keep your dirty money. You make me sick."

She turned her back on him, reaching down to grab Julian's hand.

The sight of her turning her back on him broke the last thread of Rolf's sanity.

Rolf's face turned violently red. He raised his massive right hand high into the air, his palm open, aiming directly for the back of Alycia's head. But as the gasps of the wealthy patrons echoed around them, his self-preservation kicked in. He wasn't about to ruin his reputation by physically striking a woman in front of New York's elite. He lowered his hand, his lip curling in absolute disgust.

"Throw this trash and her little bastard out," Rolf barked at his bodyguards.

The massive guard lunged forward, shoving Julian violently out of the way to get to Alycia. The six-year-old boy flew backward, crashing hard into a marble pillar. Julian let out a sharp cry of pain, clutching his bruised shoulder.

The coldness in Alycia's eyes vanished. It was replaced by pure, unadulterated murder.

She dropped to her knees, grabbing Julian and pulling him into her chest. She ran her hands over his arms, checking his bones. When she realized he was just bruised and terrified, she stood up.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and dialed the emergency line for the NYPD.

"This is Alycia Gillespie. I am reporting a malicious physical assault ordered by Rolf Gillespie at The Plaza Hotel lobby," she said, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

Rolf stared at her, his chest heaving. "You're calling the cops? You're insane! I'm your father!"

Seraphina realized the danger. She lunged forward, her claw-like nails reaching for Alycia's phone. "Give me that!"

Alycia backhanded Seraphina's wrist away with vicious force. "Touch me, and you're an accessory to assault in the second degree."

Two heavily armed NYPD officers shoved their way through the crowd, their hands resting on their holstered weapons.

Alycia reached into her jacket and pulled out her driver's license and business card. She held it up.

"Officers," Alycia said, pointing a shaking finger straight up at the black dome of the CCTV camera above them. "Pull that footage immediately. That man directed his security to assault me and a minor. I am pressing charges for assault in the second degree."

Rolf puffed out his chest, trying to use his wealth as a shield. "Do you know who I am? I pay your salaries! This is a family dispute!"

Alycia rattled off the exact penal code for assault with intent to cause physical injury. Her legal jargon was flawless. The officers looked at the bruise forming on the child's shoulder, then at the crying child.

There was no hesitation.

One officer grabbed Rolf's arm, twisted it violently behind his back, and slammed him against the glass wall. The cold steel handcuffs clicked loudly around his wrists.

The paparazzi flashes went absolutely crazy. Rolf Gillespie, the billionaire, was being arrested like a common thug.

Seraphina screamed. She tried to run after the officers as they dragged Rolf away, but her stiletto caught on the tile. The heel snapped. She crashed hard onto the floor, her mink coat dragging in spilled coffee.

Alycia pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped a stray tear from Julian's cheek. Her face was completely numb.

She picked Julian up, pressing his face into her shoulder so he wouldn't see his grandfather in handcuffs.

"I will follow you to the precinct to give my statement," Alycia told the remaining officer.

She turned and walked out the sliding doors toward the waiting black car. Her spine was perfectly straight. She didn't look back at the wreckage on the floor.

The black Maybach cruised smoothly down the interstate, heading back toward Manhattan.

Hiram had ordered C.J. to locate Alycia Gillespie's known associates within the hour. Alastair, her uncle and the lead designer roped into the salvage project, had been pulled out of the hotel lobby by two of Hiram's men and shoved into the Maybach barely thirty minutes ago.

In the back seat, Hiram Houston leaned his head against the leather headrest. His eyes were closed. His long fingers tapped a restless, rhythmic beat against the armrest.

In the passenger seat, C.J. kept glancing at the rearview mirror, watching his boss's dark mood.

Alastair sat stiffly next to Hiram. He had been dragged into the car to give a real-time update on the design project's salvage plan. The silence in the car was suffocating. Alastair was sweating through his shirt.

Desperate to break the unbearable tension, Alastair cleared his throat.

"Kids are resilient, aren't they?" Alastair chuckled nervously. "My great-nephew, Julian. After all that mess at the hotel, he was just happy to see his mom. I took a picture of him in the lounge yesterday. Looks like a little angel, doesn't he?"

Alastair pulled out his phone, opened the photo gallery, and held it out toward the back seat, hoping a cute kid picture would soften the billionaire.

Hiram didn't want to look. He was annoyed. But as he turned his head to tell Alastair to put the phone away, his eyes caught the glowing screen.

His breath stopped in his throat.

He stared at the photo. The little boy was smiling, holding a juice box. The messy black hair. The sharp, aristocratic jawline.

And those eyes. Those piercing, unnatural blue eyes.

Hiram's stomach dropped out from under him. A physical shockwave hit his chest, so hard he felt dizzy. He was looking at a ghost. He was looking at a mirror. It was exactly what he looked like when he was six years old.

C.J. turned his head to look at the phone. He gasped out loud.

"Holy shit," C.J. whispered, forgetting his professionalism. "Boss... he looks exactly like you."

Alastair froze. He looked at the photo, then looked at Hiram's face. The blood drained from Alastair's cheeks. He saw it too. The resemblance was terrifying.

The air in the Maybach turned to solid ice. The only sound was the low hum of the engine.

Hiram snatched the phone out of Alastair's hand. His knuckles turned bone-white. He used his thumb and index finger to zoom in on the boy's face.

His mind raced backward. Six years ago. The rainy night. The woman bleeding on the pavement. The woman he threw into the trunk.

Then, his mind flashed back to yesterday. The airport. Alycia Gillespie. The way she had violently thrown her body in front of the boy, hiding his face. The pure, animalistic terror in her eyes when she looked at him.

Hiram's breathing turned heavy. His jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.

He slowly lowered the phone. He turned his head and locked his eyes on Alastair. His gaze was lethal.

"What is the mother's name?" Hiram asked. His voice was a low, dangerous whisper.

Alastair pressed himself against the door, terrified. "Aly... Alycia. Alycia Gillespie."

Hiram tossed the phone onto Alastair's lap.

He leaned forward and hit the intercom button. "C.J."

"Yes, sir," C.J. answered instantly.

"I want a full background check on Alycia Gillespie. I want her medical records, her travel history, her tax returns, and the birth certificate of that child. I want every single movement she has made for the last six years on my desk in one hour."

"Understood."

"Step on it," Hiram ordered the driver.

The Maybach surged forward, the sudden acceleration pressing everyone deep into their seats.

Hiram leaned back and closed his eyes again. His heart was hammering against his ribs. The image of the little boy's face burned behind his eyelids.