Part 2: I cut the billionaire's wife's half-million-dollar dress to humiliate her on the red carpet, unaware she had just bought the fashion house and called the police for my arrest.

While the press conference had dismantled Julian Ward’s public persona, the legal and financial war was far from clean.

Over the next four weeks, Manhattan became a battleground of forensic accountants, depositions, and grand jury testimonies. Julian, granted bail under a restrictive home-confinement monitoring program at his upstate horse farm in Dutchess County, was burning through his remaining legal retainers like an oil fire.

I spent my days at the offices of the Sterling Charitable Foundation on the forty-second floor of the Midtown tower.

Elena had kept every single word of her promise. Maya had been relocated to a private recovery suite at the Mount Sinai pediatric pavilion, where her latest bone marrow biopsy had shown a complete cessation of leukemic cell proliferation. For the first time in two years, her doctors were whispering the word *remission*.

"Look at this," Marcus said one rainy Tuesday afternoon, walking into the private conference room where I was cataloging Maison DeLisle inventory manifests.

He dropped a legal filing onto the glass table.

"Julian’s upstate bail was just revoked," Marcus said, pulling off his damp overcoat and tossing it over a leather armchair. "The SEC uncovered an unauthorized attempt to liquidate five million dollars in offshore bearer bonds through an unregistered broker in Montreal. The federal judge issued an immediate remand order. Marshals are en route to the farm right now."

I looked out the window at the rain lashing against the glass. "He's going to run, isn't he?"

"He can't," Marcus said, leaning over the table, his amber eyes intense. "His passport is flagged in every international database. His private pilot’s license is suspended. He has no friends left, Amber. When a billionaire loses his money, he discovers that every single person in his contact list was an invoice, not an ally."

Suddenly, the phone on the conference desk shrieked with an urgent, two-tone ring.

Marcus hit the speaker button. "Rivera."

*"Marcus!"* Elena’s voice was uncharacteristically tight, breathless. *"Where is Amber?"*

"She's with me in conference room four," Marcus said, straightening up instantly. "What happened?"

*"Julian left the farm,"* Elena said, the sound of traffic and sirens blaring in the background of her call. *"He disabled his ankle monitor forty minutes ago using a high-voltage bypass kit. The local sheriff found his security detail unconscious in the barn. He took a dark gray Range Rover registered to his late father’s estate—a car that wasn't on the federal seizure list."*

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. "Elena... where is he going?"

*"He didn't head north toward the Canadian border,"* Elena said, her voice trembling with cold rage. *"The license-plate reader on the Henry Hudson Parkway just pinged the Range Rover heading south toward Manhattan. Marcus, he knows Maya is at Mount Sinai."*

The blood rushed out of my head with a sickening roar.

"Maya," I gasped, knocking my chair backward as I scrambled toward the door. "He’s going after Maya!"

"Amber, wait!" Marcus shouted, lunging forward, his arm catching me around the waist before I could bolt into the hallway. "Listen to me! Mount Sinai is completely locked down. I had four private guards posted at her floor two weeks ago. He can't get within two hundred feet of her room without triggering an armed response!"

"He's desperate, Marcus!" I screamed, struggling against his grip, the terror for my little sister tearing through my chest like jagged glass. "He knows she's the only thing in the world that can hurt me! If he touches her—"

"He isn't going to Mount Sinai," Marcus said firmly, holding my shoulders, forcing me to look directly into his eyes until my frantic breathing slowed. "Think like Julian, Amber. What does he actually want? Does he want revenge on a sick teenager? No. Julian is a narcissist. Julian wants leverage to negotiate an exit. He wants to force Elena to release the frozen escrow in Zurich."

Marcus pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing the head of building security on speed-dial.

"Where is Elena right now?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"She was heading to the Maison DeLisle design studio on 57th Street to sign the final receivership transition papers," Marcus said, his eyes widening in sudden, terrible comprehension. "The studio. The sub-street archive room. That's where the original handwritten corporate ledger from her father's estate is stored."