Part 2: My sister-in-law smashed a fork into my hand for touching a crab leg, unaware that I owned the $1.2 million condo her brother was living in for free.

By Thursday afternoon, the ultimatum had circulated through the Oak Brook grapevine like wildfire.

I wasn't in my office; I was working remotely from the terrace of a coffee shop in River North, watching the autumn leaves drift down past the Chicago River, when my phone rang.

It wasn't Vance.

It was Loretta.

I let it ring three times before sliding my thumb across the screen and putting her on speakerphone.

"Sloane," Loretta’s voice boomed through the tiny speaker, sharp and dripping with theatrical condescension. "Vance tells me you've issued some sort of ridiculous ultimatum."

"Good afternoon, Loretta," I said, sipping my iced matcha. "How is your blood pressure? Did the potato help?"

"Don't you dare mock me!" she snapped. "Do you have any idea what kind of humiliation you are putting my son through? He spent last night sleeping on the guest room bed—in his own home, which you graciously allow him to inhabit while you lord your condo over him like a feudal lord!"

"It’s actually a very comfortable mattress," I remarked. "Good lumbar support."

"Listen to me very carefully, young lady," Loretta hissed, her voice dropping into a menacing register that had probably cowed three generations of subordinate relatives. "The Vance family has built an empire in DuPage County. We have influence. We have connections. If you think you can isolate my son, humiliate my daughter, and treat our traditions like garbage, you are sorely mistaken. We are coming to your office tomorrow."

I paused, lowering my straw. "My office?"

"That's right. Harlan has arranged a meeting with your senior partners. We are going to inform them of your erratic, unstable behavior and your inability to function within a civilized family unit. Let's see how your consulting firm likes having a liability representing them in boardrooms."

I stared across the river at the gleaming glass facade of the Wrigley Building.

For a second, I felt a flicker of absolute disbelief. These people weren't just entitled; they were genuinely unhinged. They thought corporate partnerships operated like a feudal village where the local matriarch could march into an executive suite and complain about her daughter-in-law's manners.

"Loretta," I said, my voice terrifyingly calm.

"What?" she spat.

"If you or Harlan or anyone else from your little Oak Brook cult steps foot in my office building tomorrow, I won't just call building security."

"Oh, really? What will you do? Cry to your boss?"

"No," I smiled faintly. "My firm’s primary managing partner is a woman named Eleanor Vance—no relation to your illustrious clan, thankfully. She is a former federal prosecutor who once put a corporate embezzler away for twelve years. If you show up at her reception desk whining about family traditions and seafood forks, she will have you escorted out by armed bailiffs before you can say 'King crab.'"

Loretta sucked in a sharp breath. "You wouldn't."

"Try me. And while you're at it, tell Vance that his twenty-four-hour clock is still ticking. Four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. If he hasn't chosen his wife over your matriarchy, I'm filing the papers."