They offered her $75,000 to sign a wedding NDA, completely oblivious that section four was a trap designed to hide three years of stolen trust funds.

The NDA sat on my quartz island, heavy as lead.

"Read section four," Sarah Klein’s voice echoed through my speakerphone from her Manhattan office.

I ran my index finger down the legal jargon. "Section four: Subject party agrees to relinquish all digital, physical, or audio materials concerning minor dependents of the Ward family, including but not limited to legacy drives and estate recordings..."

My breath hitched in my throat. The pain in my scalp—seven fresh stitches under a thick layer of medical gauze—faded into a cold, sharp rage.

"It’s not about the wedding, Sloan," Sarah said quietly. "The tiara, the drama, the Instagram post... it was all cover. They knew you’d fight back legally. They wanted you so focused on defending your reputation that you’d sign away the legacy drives without looking."

My mother stood by my kitchen window, her manicured fingers tapping nervously against her arm. She hadn't offered to help me change my bandage. She hadn't asked if the painkillers were working. She was waiting for a signature.

"Juniper's trust," I whispered into the phone.

"Bingo," Sarah replied. "Your sister, your mother, and your father are terrified of what happens when June turns eighteen in three months. If you sign that document, you surrender every piece of evidence showing how they spent your late sister’s life insurance fund."

I looked up at my mother. Laurel Ward didn't flinch.

"You knew," I said, my voice dropping an octave.

"Sloan, be reasonable," Mom said, taking a step toward the island. "Delaney has a career. She’s building a brand. June is a child who needs her college paid for, and Delaney has managed those brand deals for her benefit—"

"Delaney monetized my dead sister's daughter," I interrupted, standing up so fast the stool scraped hard against the hardwood floor. "She turned my niece's grief into content for three years, and now that June is old enough to ask where her mother's money went, you're trying to gag me with seventy-five thousand dollars of Delaney's sponsorship cash."

Mom's polite, matronly mask slipped. Her eyes hardened into slits. "You always were the difficult one. So righteous. So clinical. You think you're better than us because you have a degree on your wall? You live in a two-bedroom apartment, Sloan. Delaney pays for your father's country club dues. She paid for the conservatory!"

"With stolen money!" I yelled, the rage breaking through my professional composure. "And she put barbed wire in a tiara and jammed it into my head because I told June she didn't have to smile for the camera at the rehearsal dinner!"

Mom didn't deny it. She picked up the manila envelope, slid the unsigned NDA back inside, and tucked it into her designer handbag.

"You have until 5:00 PM tomorrow," Mom said coldly, walking toward my front door. "If you don't sign, Delaney’s PR team releases the unedited footage of you pushing her into the cake table. You’ll be ruined. Your license will be revoked. You won't practice therapy in the state of New York again."

"Tell Delaney to bring her PR team," I said, leaning over the counter. "Because my lawyer is bringing a subpoena."

The front door slammed shut.

I stood in the quiet apartment, my heart hammering against my ribs. I picked up my phone and called Bellamy.