THE LIE SPOKEN THROUGH THE SPEAKER

The word hung in the quiet office like a physical weight.

Mom.

Caroline’s face drained of color. The perfect, composed mask she had worn all evening completely shattered. She lunged for the phone, her manicured thumb jabbing the red button to end the call.

But it was too late.

Vincent stood perfectly still.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply looked at the woman he was supposed to marry.

“Your brother,” Vincent said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

Caroline stepped back, her chest heaving. “Vincent, he’s hysterical. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. The shock of the accident—”

“He called you Mom.”

“It’s a trauma response!” Her voice climbed higher, tinged with a desperate edge. “Our mother died when he was young. I practically raised him. He gets confused when he’s terrified.”

Vincent looked at Frank.

The older driver was staring at the floor, his hands folded tightly in his lap.

“Frank,” Vincent said gently. “Did you know?”

Frank swallowed hard. He didn’t look up. “It wasn’t my place to speak on the lady’s personal history, sir. But... yes. Evan isn’t her brother. He’s her son. She had him when she was seventeen.”

Caroline turned on Frank, her eyes venomous. “You senile old fool! I’ll ruin you for this!”

“You won’t do anything,” Vincent interrupted.

He stepped between Caroline and his driver. The protective shift in his posture made the air in the room feel heavy.

“You lied about your age,” Vincent stated, piecing it together. “You lied about your family. But that isn’t what matters right now.”

He took a step closer to her.

“Who was driving the car, Caroline?”

“Evan was!” she cried, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “He took the keys! He wanted to take the sedan for a joyride before his flight. He hit that woman. I was just trying to protect him. I’m a mother, Vincent. You have to understand that. I panicked to save my son.”

It was a brilliant performance.

If I hadn’t been standing in the garage two hours ago, I might have believed her.

Vincent turned his head.

He looked directly at me.

“Jessie.”

My injured hand throbbed beneath the ice pack. I stood up from my chair.

“You saw them get out of the car,” Vincent said. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

Caroline shot me a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

A warning.

A promise that she would ensure I never worked in Chicago again. My rent was due. My car insurance was due. Sixty-three dollars to my name.

I looked at Frank. He had stayed late to fix my car.

Then I looked at Vincent. He had stopped a dinner of thirty wealthy people just to ask why I was hurt.

“Evan got out of the driver’s side,” I said quietly.

Caroline let out a breath of relief.

“But,” I continued, my voice steadying, “he had to climb over the center console to do it. Because the driver’s side door was crushed. It wouldn’t open.”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed.

“When the car pulled into the garage,” I said, “Caroline was sitting in the driver’s seat. She climbed over into the passenger seat before she opened the door. She was driving, Mr. Marino.”

Caroline lunged at me.

She didn’t make it halfway.

Vincent caught her by the upper arm, stopping her dead in her tracks. His grip wasn’t violent, but it was absolute.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked.

“Miles,” Vincent said loudly.

The office door opened immediately. The head of security stepped inside, his expression completely blank.

“Sir.”

“Bring the police officers in here,” Vincent ordered.

Caroline stopped struggling. The fight instantly left her body. “Vincent, please. You can’t do this. I’m going to be your wife.”

“No,” he said quietly, releasing her arm. “You’re not.”

He turned his back on her, a dismissal so complete it felt colder than anger. He walked over to my chair and picked up Caroline’s designer purse, which she had left on the desk earlier.

He intended to hand it to her.

But as he lifted it, the purse tipped. The gold clasp was unfastened.

A few items spilled onto the polished mahogany desk. Lipstick. A compact mirror.

And a small, yellow piece of paper.

Vincent looked at the paper. He didn’t move.

He reached out and picked it up.

His jaw tightened until a muscle ticked in his cheek.

“What is this?” he asked softly.

Caroline stared at the paper. She had stopped breathing entirely.

I could see the bold black letters printed at the top from where I stood.

It was a pawn shop ticket.

“Vincent, I can explain,” she whispered.

Vincent didn’t look at her. “My mother’s emerald necklace has been in the family vault for twenty years. Only you and I have the combination.”

He read the date on the ticket.

“You pawned it three days ago.”

Caroline backed away toward the wall.

Vincent looked up. The calm, measured man who had presided over the dinner table was gone. The man standing there now was the reason people feared the Marino name.

“Why do you need two hundred thousand dollars in cash, Caroline?”

Before she could answer, the office door opened again.

Two uniformed police officers walked in.

But they weren’t looking at Caroline.

They were holding a soaked, crumpled photograph in a plastic evidence bag.

“Mr. Marino,” the older officer said grimly. “The woman who was struck in the crosswalk is in critical condition. She didn’t have a wallet or an ID.”

The officer held up the plastic bag.

“But she was clutching this in her hand when the paramedics found her.”

I stared at the evidence bag.

It was a photograph of Vincent.