The reply from Jonathan Vance, the senior partner at Vance & Sterling, hit my inbox before the IV drip in my arm could finish.

The boardroom at Carter-Vance Holdings was dead silent.

Twenty-four regional directors, hardened men who had once answered only to Vincent Carter or Marcus Vance, sat around the custom-built titanium-and-glass conference table with their eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

I walked in wearing a structured midnight-blue Chanel dress, my heels clicking rhythmically against the Italian marble floor. I didn't rush. I took my seat at the absolute head of the table—the very seat Vincent used to occupy when he ruled through fear and intimidation.

I didn't need a gun on my hip. I didn't need a heavy-handed threat or a display of muscle.

I opened a sleek black tablet, scrolling through the quarterly financial projections.

"Gentlemen," I began, my voice clear, calm, and utterly devoid of hesitation. "Our logistics revenue is up forty-two percent year-over-year. The North Side acquisitions are fully integrated, and our legal compliance division has successfully cleared every regulatory hurdle with the federal district attorney."

I looked up, locking my eyes onto Marcus Vance, who sat quietly near the center of the table as an advisory partner. Marcus offered a subtle, respectful nod of his head.

"However," I continued, leaning forward slightly, "I noticed a discrepancy in the Oak Street warehousing expenditures. Two hundred thousand dollars unaccounted for in last month's ledger."

A middle-aged regional manager three seats down swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming instantly on his forehead. "Mrs. Carter, that was... that was an administrative oversight—"

"There are no oversights in my company," I interrupted smoothly, my tone dropping an octave, carrying an icy steel that made the entire room hold its breath. "If a decimal point is out of place, it means someone is either incompetent or dishonest. And in either case, they don't belong in my syndicate."