The sound of shattering crystal echoed like a gunshot across the sunlit courtyard of the Montgomery estate. Up on the second-floor balcony, Eleanor Montgomery stood frozen, her manicured fingers trembling where her champagne flute had just slipped from her grip.

Three nights later, the wind howling off Lake Michigan whipped across the glass facade of Vance Global Tech like a pack of wolves.

Inside my penthouse office, the lights were dimmed. I sat behind my massive mahogany desk, reviewing the real estate acquisition deeds we had pulled from the vault. According to the original charters, the Montgomery family didn't just own the Lake Geneva estate; they held ancient mineral, water, and commercial dock rights spanning nearly twenty miles of the Illinois and Wisconsin shoreline.

If the Board of Seven wanted to launch an antitrust lawsuit to choke my supply chains, they were playing checkers while I was setting up a geopolitical chessboard.

Buzz.

My secure desk intercom blinked red.

"Ms. Vance," Captain Miller’s voice came through, sounding tense and heavily disciplined. "We have an uninvited perimeter breach at the downtown corporate garage. Three black unmarked sedans bypassed the security gate. They aren't police. They’re carrying tactical gear."

I didn't panic. I calmly closed my laptop, reached into the executive desk drawer, and pulled out a sleek, matte-black encrypted satellite phone.

"Activate Protocol Omega," I instructed smoothly, my voice cold as ice. "Lock down all lower-level data servers. Notify the federal marshals stationed at the federal holding facility that we have an active corporate sabotage attempt in progress. And Miller?"

"Yes, Ms. Vance?"

"Let them up to the fiftieth floor. I want to welcome our guests personally."

Ten minutes later, the private elevator chime echoed through the quiet, darkened executive suite.

The polished steel doors slid open.

Three men stepped out of the elevator. They wore high-end bespoke Italian suits that screamed old money, but their posture was rigid, militaristic, and dangerous. Leading them was a tall, silver-haired man with cold, piercing blue eyes and a scar running along his jawline—Arthur Sterling, the head of the Board of Seven and senior partner of Blackwood Legal.

Arthur Sterling looked around the luxurious penthouse office, his lips curling into a predatory smirk as he adjusted his platinum cufflinks.

"Magnificent setup, Katherine," Sterling said, his voice smooth, dripping with condescension as he walked uninvited across my carpet. "You played the abused ex-wife card brilliantly. You ousted Eleanor, humiliated Ethan, and stole a crumbling estate. But you forgot one golden rule of Chicago."

I remained seated behind my desk, resting my hands calmly on the blotter. "And what rule is that, Arthur?"

"You don't play in the big leagues without paying rent to the house," Sterling sneered, stopping just five feet from my desk. He placed both hands on the mahogany surface and leaned forward, his blue eyes narrowing. "Sign over the Lake Geneva property deeds and the shipping rights back to the Board of Seven by midnight, or we will systematically strip every patent, server, and asset your tech firm owns until you're back sleeping on a South Side cot."

I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply smiled—a cold, terrifying smile that made Sterling’s confident expression falter for a split second.

"You know, Arthur," I whispered, pressing a small button beneath my desk. "Eleanor said almost the exact same thing to me five years ago. And look how well things turned out for her."