The thick carpet in the Ware Group's top-floor boardroom absorbed the sharp clicks of Annabelle's high heels.

She wore the perfectly pressed black suit. She walked in and scanned the massive room.

Julian wasn't there. Sitting across the oval mahogany table was Jocelyne. And next to her, the twins.

Jocelyne wore a pure white cashmere sweater. Her left wrist was wrapped in a thick white bandage. She looked small, fragile, and terrified.

Leo immediately jumped out of his leather chair. He stood in front of Jocelyne, glaring at Annabelle like a protective guard dog.

Annabelle pulled out the heavy leather chair opposite them. She sat down, her posture completely relaxed.

She tossed her briefcase onto the polished wood table. It landed with a heavy, intimidating thud.

Jocelyne's eyes welled up with tears. "Annabelle, how could you do this?" Her voice trembled perfectly. "You're destroying this family. You don't care about the company's reputation at all."

Annabelle let out a short, sharp laugh. It cut through the room like a blade. She didn't let Jocelyne finish her pathetic script.

She snapped her briefcase open. She pulled out a stack of glossy 8x10 photographs and slid them hard across the smooth table.

They stopped right in front of Jocelyne.

The photos showed Jocelyne at a private underground club in Soho, exactly one hour before the hit-and-run. She was chugging champagne straight from the bottle, grinding against a male model.

Jocelyne's face drained of all color. She lunged forward, her bandaged hand clawing at the photos to hide them.

Annabelle was faster. She slammed the tip of her metal pen down hard, pinning the corner of the top photo to the table.

She leaned forward. Her voice was low and lethal. "Your estimated blood alcohol content at the time of the crash was 0.18. More than double the legal limit."

Theo frowned. He stood up on his tiptoes, trying to see the photos. Jocelyne frantically pushed them under her arms, her chest heaving.

Annabelle shifted her gaze to the twins. There was no motherly warmth left. Only the cold, calculating stare of a boardroom executive.

"If she goes to trial," Annabelle said clearly, using the exact corporate tone Julian used, "the scandal will cause the Ware Group's stock to plummet by at least twelve percent. Your trust funds will bleed millions. Is that the logical choice, Theo?"

The boys froze. They were completely stunned by the flawless, ruthless logic. They had no counter-argument.

Jocelyne realized she was losing her grip on her audience. The tears spilled over.

"You're lying!" Jocelyne screamed hysterically. "You photoshopped these! You're trying to frame me!"

Annabelle leaned back in her chair. She watched Jocelyne's meltdown with the detached amusement of someone watching a bad play.

"I've already set a delayed send on the digital copies," Annabelle said casually. "If I don't cancel it by noon, they go straight to TMZ and Page Six."

Jocelyne broke. She jumped up from her chair. Her elbow knocked into her porcelain coffee cup.

The dark brown liquid splashed violently across her pure white cashmere sweater. She looked pathetic. Ruined.

She covered her face with her hands and ran out of the boardroom, sobbing loudly.

"Aunt Jocelyne!" Leo yelled, chasing after her.

Theo stayed behind. He stared at his mother, his young face contorted with confusion and a new, unfamiliar fear.

Annabelle ignored him. She looked down and started organizing her papers.

In the corner of the ceiling, a small security camera blinked with a faint red light.

In the CEO's office next door, Julian sat frozen in front of his monitors. He had watched the entire thing.

He stared at the screen. He didn't recognize the ruthless, terrifying woman sitting in that chair.

The yellow No. 2 pencil in his hand snapped in half. The jagged wood dug into his palm.

He stood up so fast his chair hit the wall. He stormed out of his office, heading straight for the boardroom.

Annabelle grabbed her briefcase and walked out of the boardroom. Her heels clicked sharply against the cold marble floor of the executive hallway.

Her prepaid phone started vibrating violently in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The screen flashed a name she hadn't seen in months: Harrison Adkins. Her adoptive father.

Annabelle walked past the executive suites, pushing open the heavy fire door and slipping into the deserted, concrete stairwell. The thick walls completely blocked out the corporate noise, offering total privacy. She pressed answer.

Before she could even say hello, her adoptive mother, Eleanor, shrieked through the speaker.

"You ungrateful bitch!" Eleanor's voice was shrill enough to cause physical pain in Annabelle's ear. "How dare you threaten Jocelyne? We took you out of the gutter!"

Harrison snatched the phone. His voice was smooth, oily, and dripping with condescension.

"Annabelle, listen to me," Harrison commanded. "You will destroy those photos immediately. You will sign the divorce papers and leave with nothing."

He paused, then delivered the final blow. "The position of Mrs. Ware was always meant for Jocelyne. You were just a placeholder. Step aside."

Annabelle stared down at the tiny yellow taxis crawling on the streets below. Her stomach churned with violent nausea.

She took a deep breath. The air in her lungs turned to frost.

"Fine. I'll step aside. I'll leave with nothing from Julian," Annabelle said into the phone. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

"But," she continued, her tone sharpening into a blade, "the Adkins family will wire twenty million dollars into my account for emotional damages."

Dead silence on the other end of the line.

"If I don't see the money by tomorrow," Annabelle said coldly, "I'm handing everything over to the New York Times."

A tall shadow suddenly fell over her.

Julian pushed open the heavy fire door just in time to hear the last ten seconds of the conversation echoing in the concrete stairwell.

His eyes were black with a murderous rage.

Before Annabelle could react, Julian lunged forward. He ripped the phone out of her hand.

He smashed it against the marble wall with terrifying force.

The plastic casing shattered. Glass and metal parts exploded across the floor.

Annabelle gasped and spun around. She crashed right into Julian's chest.

He grabbed her wrist. His fingers clamped down on her bones so hard she thought they would snap.

"Twenty million dollars," Julian hissed, his breath hot against her face. "You finally show your true colors. You greedy, calculating whore."

"You didn't hear the whole conversation!" Annabelle shouted, trying to yank her arm back. "That was for Harrison-"

"Shut up!" Julian roared. He jerked her closer. "You think you can extort my family? You won't get a single dime."

He snapped his fingers. Two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out from the shadows at the other end of the hall.

"Take her to the Hamptons estate," Julian ordered, not taking his furious eyes off her. "Lock her down."

Annabelle fought wildly. She kicked and twisted. Her high heels scraped deep, ugly marks into the expensive carpet.

The bodyguards were professionals. They grabbed her arms, immobilizing her completely. They dragged her backward toward the private executive elevator.

"Julian, you're making a mistake!" Annabelle screamed, her voice cracking with desperation.

Julian just stood there, adjusting his cuffs. He watched with cold, dead eyes as the elevator doors slid shut, cutting off her face.

The black Maybach tore through the heavy iron gates of the heavily guarded Hamptons estate.

The bodyguards dragged Annabelle up the grand staircase. They shoved her into a guest bedroom on the second floor facing the ocean.

The heavy oak door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked loudly from the outside.

Annabelle scrambled to her feet. She ran to the window and grabbed the brass handles. She pushed with all her might. It didn't budge. Invisible reinforced locks.

She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Outside, the gray Atlantic Ocean raged, violently smashing against the jagged black rocks below the cliff.

She turned around. The landline cord had been ripped out of the wall. She was completely cut off from the world.

Hours bled into the evening. The room grew dark.

The deadbolt clicked. Arthur, the elderly butler who had served the Ware family for thirty years, walked in carrying a silver tray.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor. He set the tray of food on the small table. Annabelle saw a flicker of deep pity in his wrinkled face.

"Arthur," Annabelle whispered, stepping toward him. "Please. Let me use your phone."

Arthur gave a microscopic shake of his head. He tapped his own chest, then pointed a discreet finger at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Cameras. Audio. Everywhere.

Suddenly, chaotic footsteps thundered down the hallway. Static crackled from the bodyguards' radios.

The bedroom door was thrown open.

Julian stormed in. He was pale, his chest heaving. He gripped his cell phone so tightly his knuckles were white.

He didn't even look at Annabelle. He marched straight to the hidden wall safe behind the painting and began punching in the code to grab his passport.

"What new psychotic break are you having now?" Annabelle asked, her voice dripping with venom.

Julian whipped his head around. His eyes were bloodshot. "Jocelyne slit her wrists in the penthouse bathroom."

Annabelle blinked. Then, a short, dark laugh escaped her throat.

"Wow," Annabelle mocked, crossing her arms. "Her PR team is getting lazy. That script is pathetic. Did she use a butter knife?"

Julian's face contorted with pure rage. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the lapels of her jacket. He slammed her against the wall.

"If she dies," Julian roared, spit flying from his lips, "I will bury you with her."

Annabelle didn't flinch. She stared right back into his furious eyes. "Make sure she's actually dead before you send the invite."

Julian shoved her away in disgust, as if touching her burned his skin.

He turned on his heel and stormed out. The bodyguards scrambled after him.

A minute later, the deafening roar of a helicopter engine shook the windows. Annabelle watched the chopper lift off the lawn, heading back to Manhattan.

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

Annabelle slid down the wall until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest. Her body began to shake uncontrollably.

It wasn't fear. It was pure, unadulterated disgust for the man she had loved.

Arthur stood quietly in the doorway. He had watched the entire exchange.

He let out a heavy sigh. He walked over and handed her a glass of warm water.

As Annabelle took the glass, Arthur leaned in. His lips barely moved.

"Midnight," Arthur whispered rapidly. "Do not fall asleep."

Annabelle's head snapped up. She stared at the old butler, a spark of wild disbelief igniting in her eyes.