MY MOTHER CHOSE THANKSGIVING TURKEY OVER MY LIFE IN ICU—UNTIL A STRANGER GAVE ME THE PROOF THAT SHE CUT MY BRAKES!

"Move! Maya, get the files and move!" Julian bellowed over the deafening scream of the klaxon.

I swept the coroner’s report, the will, the photographs of Marcus beneath my car, and Clara’s leather journal into my messenger bag, slamming the heavy steel drawer shut. The crimson emergency lights cast long, demonic shadows across the polished floor, pulsing in sync with the panicked thudding of my heart.

Above our heads, a mechanical voice resonated from the intercom system, robotic and devoid of emotion:

*"Security breach detected in Sub-Vault B. Automated blast doors will seal in sixty seconds. All personnel must evacuate immediately."*

At the end of the corridor, the massive, twelve-inch-thick steel slab was already descending from the ceiling with a terrifying, hydraulic hiss.

Julian grabbed my good arm, half-lifting me as we sprinted toward the narrowing gap. Every footstep sent agonizing tremors through my fractured collarbone. I could feel the cold sweat pouring down my spine, the blood from my stitches soaking through my collar.

The gap was down to four feet. Three feet.

"Slide!" Julian shouted.

He shoved me beneath the descending wall of steel. I hit the polished floor on my side, crying out in pain as my broken ribs took the brunt of the slide, skidding across the threshold into the lobby just as the blast door slammed down behind us with a ground-shaking *THUD* that vibrated through the floorboards.

Julian dropped to his belly, scrambling through the remaining eighteen inches of space a microsecond before the door locked into the concrete foundation with a hiss of pressurized air.

We were in the main lobby, but we weren't safe.

Through the plate-glass facade of the bank, flashing blue and red emergency lights illuminated the rain-slicked street. Two blacked-out SUVs with private security insignias—*Sterling Security Services*—had blocked the entrance to the parking garage across the street. Behind them sat a Riverdale municipal police cruiser.

My father was stepping out of the lead SUV, his overcoat flapping in the icy wind, holding a sleek black umbrella. Standing beside him was Police Chief Donald Higgins—a man whose political campaigns had been funded by Sterling Global for over a decade.

"They're not here to arrest us, are they?" I whispered, clutching my messenger bag against my chest.

"Chief Higgins is on Arthur’s payroll," Julian said, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the exits. "If Higgins takes us into custody, we won't make it to the precinct lockup. We’ll suffer a ‘tragic struggle’ in the back of the patrol car. An attempted escape."

My phone suddenly vibrated violently in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out with shaking fingers. The screen displayed an incoming call from *Evelyn*.

Julian nodded grimly. "Answer it. Put it on speaker. Let's hear how she plays her final hand."

I swiped the green button, holding the phone between us.

"Maya?" Evelyn’s voice came through the speaker. It was dripping with fake, syrupy concern, the kind she used when speaking to the press or her charity committees. "Sweetheart, thank God you answered! Where are you? Your father and the police have been looking everywhere for you!"

"Save it, Evelyn," I said, my voice dead and cold. "I’m looking at Dad right now through the glass. He’s standing with Chief Higgins."

A brief, deadly pause lingered on the other end of the line. When Evelyn spoke again, the mask slipped away entirely. Her tone dropped an octave, turning into the hiss of a viper.

"You always were an ungrateful little parasite," she said, her voice venomous. "Just like Clara. Weak. Sentimental. Meddling in matters that belonged to real adults."

"You poisoned her," I said, tears of pure rage burning my eyes. "And then you helped Arthur cut my brakes."

"Clara was a roadblock," Evelyn replied without a shred of hesitation. "And you are an eighty-million-dollar liability. You have twenty-four hours until your birthday, Maya. Do you really think Arthur is going to let you walk into the probate court and take away everything we built? Look outside. The police belong to us. The press belongs to us. You are a mentally unstable girl who suffered a severe head trauma in a car accident and fled the hospital. Whatever nonsense you think you have in that bag will be shredded before breakfast."

"Not this time, Evelyn."

"Listen to me, you little bitch," Evelyn snapped, the fury finally boiling over. "Arthur is giving you one chance. Walk out of that bank with the bag. Hand it to Chief Higgins. We will send you to a private psychiatric retreat in Switzerland. You will live comfortably, out of sight, and you will never mention the Sterling name again. Refuse... and you won't survive until sunrise."

"Tell Arthur I’ll see him at the estate," I said.

"What?" Evelyn balked.

"Tonight is the annual Founder's Gala, isn't it?" I smiled, though it felt like my face was cracking. "The Governor is attending. The board of directors is attending. Every camera in the state will be there to celebrate the Sterling empire. Tell Dad to save me a seat at the table. Because I'm coming home for dinner."

I ended the call and smashed the phone onto the marble floor, grinding the microchips beneath the heel of my boot.

Julian looked at me, a slow, dangerous smile curling the corners of his scarred mouth.

"You're not running anymore, are you?"

"I ran on the highway," I said, pulling the strap of the messenger bag tight across my shoulder. "I ran down the fire escape. I'm done running, Julian. Clara died in silence. I won't."

Julian racked the slide of his pistol, his gray eyes flashing with lethal intent.