The November wind bit hard against my face, tearing through my thin wool sweater as I sat on the frozen limestone steps of the Peterson brownstone. In my arms, Lily shivered, her small, frightened breaths puffing little clouds of white mist into the dark Chicago air.

By noon on Friday, the Peterson name was no longer synonymous with Chicago high society; it was front-page news across every major digital and print publication in the Midwest.

“LOCAL INDUSTRIALIST FRANK PETERSON ARRESTED IN MASSIVE MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR PENSION FRAUD SCHEME,” blared the banner headline of the Chicago Tribune.

Inside the sleek glass offices of Sterling & Vance, I sat comfortably in an ergonomic leather chair, sipping a hot matcha latte, watching the live news coverage unfold on a wall-mounted flat screen. Lily was sitting cross-legged on the rug nearby, completely engrossed in coloring a complex geometric mandala with a brand-new set of professional markers that Marcus had bought her. She was safe, she was calm, and the dark shadow of intimidation that had hung over her brief life was already beginning to lift.

The heavy glass door to the office swung open, and Zoe walked in, tossing a leather briefcase onto the desk with a triumphant grin.

“Well,” Zoe said, dropping into the seat across from me. “The dominoes are falling faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. Frank Peterson’s bail hearing was just set, and the judge denied bond due to severe flight risk. The feds found three different passports under alias names in his country club locker.”

“And Carol and Megan?” I asked, my voice remarkably calm.

“Currently sitting in holding cells at the downtown precinct, crying mascara down their cheeks and demanding to speak to a lawyer who isn’t currently screening their calls,” Zoe laughed, shaking her head. “Turns out, when a family builds their entire social standing on lies, embezzlement, and financial bullying, they don’t have actual friends—they have co-conspirators who will sell them out to federal prosecutors in a heartbeat to save their own skins.”

My phone, which had been buzzing nonstop for three hours straight, lit up again. It was Mark. Again.

I turned the screen face down without a second glance.

“He’s called forty-two times,” Zoe noted, glancing at the glowing device. “His lawyers have tried to reach my office three times, offering a quick, quiet settlement if you agree to drop the custody emergency petition and sign a non-disparagement agreement.”

“And what did you tell them?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I told them to lose my number and communicate exclusively through court filings,” Zoe smiled sharply. “We aren’t settling, Chloe. We are going for the jugular. Under Illinois law, because Mark was an active participant in his father’s financial crimes and allowed a hostile, violent third party to physically assault his minor child in his own home, we are going to sue for full, unencumbered custody, complete financial restitution, punitive damages, and the entirety of his personal holdings.”

She leaned forward, her expression softening into genuine warmth.

“You’re going to walk away from this divorce a multimillionaire, completely independent, with sole custody of your daughter, and the absolute satisfaction of watching the Peterson dynasty turn to ash.”

I looked over at Lily, who looked up from her coloring book, flashed a bright, gap-toothed smile, and held up her masterpiece.

“Look, Mommy! I colored it all inside the lines!”

I smiled back, my heart swelling with a fierce, protective love that knew no bounds.