By the time I pressed Enter, my hands were shaking harder than they ever had in front of guns, federal agents, or men planning my funeral. I had installed hidden cameras to catch my nanny hurting my eighteen-month-old twins—but what appeared on that screen made me cry for the first time since my wife died and showed me that the woman I planned to marry had been lying to me.

The silence in my office suddenly felt suffocating. The hum of the climate control system, the distant murmur of downtown traffic sixty stories down, the blue-white glow of the monitor illuminating the dark corners of the room—everything stopped.

I stared at the screen, my mind racing through months of tactical data, reconstructing every interaction, every shared laugh, every carefully curated tear that Regina had offered me since we met.

The bruise had been makeup. A theatrical masterpiece designed to elicit my protective instincts, manufactured specifically to drive a wedge between me and the one person in my estate who genuinely cared for my children.

Why?

In my line of work, motive was everything. People didn't lie, manipulate, or frame innocent women for fun; they did it for leverage, control, or access.

And what did Regina want access to?

My mind flashed to the Verona family trust, the multi-million-dollar real estate holdings, the logistics terminals across the Midwest, and the private vault hidden behind the study bookshelf downstairs—a vault containing bearer bonds, corporate merger agreements, and the master encryption keys to my shipping empire.

If Regina could convince me that my staff was compromised by a rival like Kowalski, she could isolate me. She could position herself as my sole confidante, manipulate my paranoia, and eventually convince me to consolidate assets under joint control before marriage.

It was a classic honey trap. Executed with chilling, aristocratic patience.

And I had walked right into it, boots first, treating the only honest soul in my home like a criminal while handing my heart to a viper.

On the screen, Julieta didn't cower, despite the physical intimidation. She stood her ground, her chin lifting fractionally.

“I don't know what you're planning, Miss Ashford,” Julieta said, her voice carrying a quiet strength that made my chest swell with a fierce, unexpected pride. “But Mr. Verona is not a fool. He will see the truth.”

Regina laughed—a cold, brittle sound that echoed through the empty family room.

“Emilio sees what I want him to see,” Regina sneered, stepping right up to Julieta’s face. “He’s a grieving widower wrapped in a military-grade ego. He thinks his coldness makes him a fortress. In reality, it makes him blind. By tomorrow noon, that little Mexican girl will be out on the curb with nothing but the clothes on her back, and I will be signing the guest list for our engagement gala.”

I didn't wait to hear another word.

I slammed my laptop shut, grabbed my heavy leather coat from the stand, and bolted toward the private executive elevator. My finger hammered the override button, descending straight down to the underground parking garage where my armored Mercedes Maybach sat idling in the shadows.

As the car roared up the ramp and plunged into the rainy Chicago night, my phone buzzed in the console.

It was a text message from an unknown burner number.

“Check your security server logs, Boss. Someone’s been trying to access your secondary backup from an external IP registered to Ashford Investments.”