The first thing Nathaniel heard when he stepped into his penthouse was his mother's scream.

Nathaniel held up one finger toward Isabella — stay — and answered the call.

"Marcus.

Now isn't a good time."

"I know." Marcus Hale's voice was flat and careful.

"That's why I'm calling.

Are you alone?"

Nathaniel looked at Isabella.

She had folded her arms and was watching him with the patient stillness of someone who had rehearsed for this moment.

"No," he said.

"Then listen and don't react." A pause.

"I received a document this afternoon.

Courier delivered it to my office at four-fifteen.

It's a psychiatric assessment — dated six weeks ago — declaring your mother unfit to manage her own financial affairs."

Nathaniel's grip tightened on the phone.

"The signature on the assessment belongs to a Dr.

Raymond Harmon," Marcus continued.

"I checked his license.

He's a real physician.

But his specialty is geriatric care, and his clinic — Nathaniel, his clinic received a fifty-thousand-dollar private donation eleven weeks ago.

The donor is listed as the Voss Family Trust."

Evelyn looked up at him.

She had heard the name.

"That's her family," Evelyn said quietly.

"Isabella's family."

Nathaniel kept his eyes on Isabella.

"Marcus, who filed the assessment?"

"It was submitted to the court as part of a conservatorship application.

If it had gone through, your mother would have lost legal control of her assets within thirty days.

Her accounts, her property holdings, her share of the Crane estate — all of it would have transferred to a court-appointed manager."

"And who was named as the recommended manager?"

A beat of silence.

"A firm called Aldgate Advisory Group," Marcus said.

"I've been looking into them for the past two hours.

They were incorporated eight months ago.

The sole director is a man named Clifton Voss."

Isabella's brother.

Nathaniel lowered the phone slowly.

Isabella's expression didn't change.

But her chin lifted — a fraction of an inch — in the way it always did when she felt she still had the advantage.

"You want to tell me about the Voss Family Trust?" he asked.

"Nathaniel, you're upset.

You're not thinking clearly."

"Clifton Voss," he said.

"Aldgate Advisory Group.

Fifty thousand dollars to Dr.

Harmon's clinic.

You want to start there, or should I keep going?"

The color didn't drain from her face.

It shifted — something colder moving in underneath.

"You've been talking to Marcus," she said.

"Of course you have."

"How long has this been planned?"

"You're making connections that aren't there."

"Isabella." His voice dropped.

"My mother was in that jacuzzi.

I watched you push her fingers off the ledge.

I heard what you said to her.

Don't tell me what I'm making up."

For the first time, she moved.

She crossed to the terrace railing and looked out over the city, her back to him.

"Your mother has never accepted me," she said.

"Not once in two years.

Everything I've done, every dinner, every family event — she has worked against me.

You don't see it because she performs for you."

"So you had her declared mentally unfit."

"I protected myself."

"You tried to take everything she owns."

Isabella turned back around.

"I tried to make sure that when we married, your mother's interference couldn't undo what we were building together.

That's not a crjme, Nathaniel.

That's planning."

Evelyn made a small sound — not quite a word.

Nathaniel looked at his mother.

She was still wrapped in his jacket, her silver hair damp against her cheek, her hands folded in her lap with a stillness that had taken her seventy-five years to learn.

"She told me three months ago," Evelyn said softly.

"She sat across from me at lunch — right here, on this terrace — and she told me that I was becoming a burden.

That I embarrassed you at events.

That the kindest thing I could do for my son was to let someone else manage my affairs so he didn't have to worry." She paused.

"I thought she was being cruel.

I didn't know she had already filed the paperwork."

Nathaniel turned back to Isabella.

She met his gaze without flinching.

"I want you out of this penthouse," he said.

"Tonight."

"We're engaged."

"Not anymore."

Something moved across her face — fast, then gone.

"You'll regret this," she said quietly.

"You don't know everything yet."

He held the door open.

She picked up her bag from the chair beside the terrace table — it had been there the whole time, packed and waiting — and walked past him without another word.

The elevator doors closed.

Nathaniel stood in the silence.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

A text from Marcus.

*There's something else.