“You wore that to Mom’s funeral?” my sister said with a sneer, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light as she adjusted the Valdderee heels on her feet. “I mean, I know things are hard for you, but couldn’t you at least have made an effort?” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. I had designed this “cheap” dress myself. I owned the label on her shoes. I owned the boutique we were standing in. And one hour earlier, I had personally approved the cancellation of her modeling contract. Then my brother’s bank made the news…

Martinez studied me for a beat. “Did you know Blake Morgan was instrumental in structuring these loans?”

There it was—the test.

Did I know Blake?

Would I admit the connection?

“I’ve heard the name,” I said evenly. “I believe he was quite proud of his innovative lending strategies. At least, that’s what he called them at industry events.”

Both detectives made notes.

They asked a few more questions, dancing around the edges of what they really wanted to know—whether I had inside information, whether I’d been complicit or victimized, whether I could be a witness or a target.

After they left, I stood at my window watching the city prepare for another perfect Los Angeles sunset.

My family was out there somewhere, scrambling for solutions to problems they’d created. They’d call me again tonight, I knew—beg for help from the one person they’d always dismissed as irrelevant.

And I’d answer eventually.

But first, they needed to understand the full weight of their assumptions, the cost of their casual cruelty, the price of never looking beyond the surface.

The boutique owner they pitied was about to reveal herself as the architect of their destruction.

And unlike them, I’d built my empire on foundations that couldn’t crumble: quality, ethics, and the radical idea that people should be seen for who they truly were.

The sunset painted the sky in shades of revenge—beautiful and terrible in equal measure.