I let her call me trash, because she had no idea whose daughter I was.

The air left the room.

Inspector Moreau’s pen froze mid-sentence.

I stared at my father, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.

“What?” I breathed. “That’s impossible. That was twelve years ago. The police said—”

“The police said they never found him,” my father cut in, his voice raw. “They said it was a random hit and run. Drunk driver. Probably foreign. Probably long gone.”

He stood and walked to the fireplace, his back to us.

“But I never believed it,” he said quietly. “Your mother was… she was going to testify. Against a group of investors who’d been embezzling from the company. Men who would have paid millions to make her disappear.”

He turned around, and his eyes were glistening.

“I’ve spent twelve years carrying that weight, Elara. Twelve years wondering if my business killed the woman I loved. And now… now Amber Torres is running around with a man who has the exact same tattoo as the man who murdered your mother.”

Inspector Moreau closed her notebook, her expression grim.

“This changes everything,” she said. “If there’s a connection between Torres and your wife’s death, we’re not looking at a simple harassment case anymore. We’re looking at a criminal organization that’s been operating inside your company for over a decade.”

She stood.

“I’m assigning a full protective detail to both of you. Round the clock. And I’m reopening the Vaucluse cold case. Starting tomorrow, my team will be going through every file, every employee record, every financial transaction from the last fifteen years. No stone unturned.”

She paused at the door.

“Try to get some sleep. Both of you. We’ll find them.”

After she left, the silence in the library was heavy enough to drown in.

My father poured two glasses of whiskey and handed me one. I was twenty-two, but tonight I felt a hundred years old.

“Dad,” I said, staring into the amber liquid. “Who were these investors? The ones Mom was going to testify against.”

He sighed, sinking into his leather chair.

“Men who called themselves my friends. Men I’d invited into my home. Marcus Thorne. Victor Hale. And… Richard Torres.”

I choked on my drink.

“Torres?”

He nodded gravely.

“Amber’s father.”

The pieces started clicking together, forming a picture so ugly I wanted to look away.

“Richard Torres was my CFO,” my father continued. “My right hand. For ten years. And all that time, he was siphoning money. Your mother found out. She was going to the SEC the next week. And then… the accident.”

He took a long drink.

“I fired him. Cleaned house. Or so I thought. But he’d already covered his tracks. No proof. Nothing to take to court. He walked away with a golden parachute and vanished. I never heard from him again. Until… until his daughter showed up at my casting call three years ago.”

I stood, the room spinning slightly.

“You knew?” I whispered. “You knew Amber was Richard Torres’ daughter and you still hired her?”

“I didn’t know at first,” he said quickly. “By the time I found out, she was already the face of the brand. She was good, Elara. Brilliant on camera. And I told myself… she’s not her father. Children shouldn’t pay for the sins of their parents. I gave her a chance. A real chance. And she threw it back in my face.”

He looked at me, guilt written across every line of his face.

“And then you came to me and said you wanted to intern. Incognito. I should have said no. I should have told you everything. I just… I wanted to believe that the past was the past. That I could protect you by keeping you in the dark.”

I walked around the desk and knelt beside him, taking his hand.

“It’s not your fault, Dad,” I said softly. “None of this is your fault. They’re the criminals. Not you. Not Mom.”

But even as I said the words, my mind was racing.

Amber wasn’t just a jealous model.

She was a plant.

Her father had sent her. Three years ago. To get close. To climb the ladder. To get into position. And when I’d shown up—the rightful heir, the daughter who’d been hidden away at boarding school in Switzerland for her own safety—she’d panicked.

Ripping my dress hadn’t been just vanity.

It had been sabotage.

And now that Plan A had failed?

What was Plan B?

I didn’t sleep that night.

I lay in my childhood bedroom—the same four-poster bed I’d slept in since I was a little girl, the same curtains my mother had picked out—and stared at the ceiling. Outside, I could hear the security teams patrolling the grounds. Inside, the house creaked and groaned like an old man with secrets.

Around three a.m., my phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

A text message.

I opened it.

A photo.

Taken from the treeline at the bottom of the garden. Through my bedroom window. I could see myself in the blurry image, sitting up in bed, phone in hand.

My blood turned to ice.

Another text came through.

Daddy can’t protect you forever, little princess.

Then another.