The gravel crunched beneath shoes that were entirely too small for the solemnity of Brookside Memorial.

Richard sat frozen in his leather chair, the satellite phone trembling slightly in his grip. The words echoed in his skull like a death knell: Her brakes were cut... Those little girls carry the biometric keys...

He had spent three years believing Elizabeth’s death was a tragic, random act of fate. He had punished himself with overwork, wrapped himself in the cold armor of grief, and visited her grave every Sunday like a penitent monk. But it wasn't an accident. It was murder. And the target wasn't just Elizabeth—it was his entire bloodline.

The heavy oak door of his study creaked open.

Mrs. Higgins stepped inside, her face pale, holding a small, silver-framed photograph she must have retrieved from the nursery.

"Mr. Blackwood," she whispered, her voice shaking. "The girls are upstairs. Mrs. Gable is giving them warm milk. But... sir, you need to see this. I found this tucked inside the lining of the backpack the middle one was carrying."

Richard looked up. Higgins placed a small, heavily encrypted flash drive on the desk, alongside a handwritten note written on crisp, expensive stationery bearing the personal crest of Elizabeth Blackwood.

Richard’s hands shook as he unfolded the note. Elizabeth’s handwriting—slanted, elegant, yet hurried—jumped out at him:

Richard, If you are reading this, I didn't make it. Uncle Victor found out about the girls. He knows they have my DNA, and he knows our corporate vault's biometric security is tied to my direct lineage. He wants everything—Blackwood Enterprises, our fortune, and my babies. I couldn't tell you before because they were watching you, tracking every move you made in the boardroom. Trust no one, Richard. Not your board members. Not your legal counsel. Only our daughters. Love, Elizabeth

Richard stared at the paper, a suffocating wave of rage and guilt crashing over him. They were watching you.

His own board of directors. The very people he sat across from every Tuesday morning, discussing mergers and stock valuations. One of them—or all of them—had been in league with Victor Vance.

"Higgins," Richard said, his voice dropping into a deadly, freezing calm.

"Yes, sir?"

"Call security. Tell them to double the internal guard. No outside staff, no caterers, no maintenance crews are to set foot on this property until further notice. And get me Marcus Vance on the private line."

"Marcus Vance, sir? But he's your chief legal counsel and vice president of operations..."

"Do it now," Richard commanded, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward and crashed into the bookshelf.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling Beacon Hill courtyard. The black Bentley was parked by the front steps, but something was wrong. Jenkins was standing by the driver's door, talking to a man in a dark grey suit—a man who had just stepped out of an unmarked silver sedan parked right outside the security gates.