The monitor beside Maxwell Sterling’s bed hummed with a steady, rhythmic pulse that seemed to mock the chaos inside his mind. Under the harsh white hospital lights, the tech billionaire stared at seven-year-old Emma Hayes, completely ignoring the IV lines tethered to his arm.

The heavy iron gates of the Lake Geneva estate shuddered as a convoy of three black SUVs pressed against them.

Maxwell stepped out onto the gravel driveway, flanked by four private security officers. His posture was rigid, his blue eyes flashing with an icy, dangerous fury.

The lead vehicle’s door opened, and a tall, impeccably dressed man in his late thirties stepped out. He had sharp, angular features, cold gray eyes, and a predatory smirk that bore an unsettling resemblance to the worst parts of the Sterling bloodline.

“Hello, uncle,” Richard Sterling Jr. drawled, adjusting his silk tie as he approached. “I must say, you’ve turned our family home into quite a lovely charity commune.”

Maxwell didn't blink. “You’re trespassing, Richard. Turn your cars around and get off my property before I have you thrown into a federal holding cell.”

Richard laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. “You can’t throw me anywhere, Max. Look at the date on this.” He pulled a pristine, notarized leather-bound document from his briefcase. “My father filed this secondary proxy in 1999. Under corporate law, if you fail to maintain sole residency and clear financial solvency without secondary claims, the estate reverts to the direct bloodline.”

Michael stepped out from the porch steps, his fists clenched, his work boots crunching on the gravel. “Leave, pal. You don't belong here.”