THE WOMAN AT TABLE SIX SAID, “GET THAT OLD MAN OUT OF HERE BEFORE MY HUSBAND ARRIVES.” I REFUSED—AND TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I WAS STANDING IN THE LOBBY WITH MY NAME TAG IN MY HAND WHEN HER HUSBAND WALKED IN AND CALLED HIM “SIR.” The first thing I noticed about the old man was his hands. They were clean, but rough.

“Private property?” Thomas roared, springing to his feet and placing himself between his frail father and the advancing suits. “This is a church, Caroline!”

The man with the briefcase—clearly a high-powered corporate lawyer—stepped forward, his expensive shoes clicking against the stone floor.

“Actually, Mr. Bishop,” the lawyer said smoothly, opening his briefcase. “This building was purchased by Vance Construction Holdings three hours ago. The diocese was heavily in debt. Mrs. Bishop made them an offer they couldn't refuse.”

I stared in horror.

While we were fleeing for our lives, Caroline had been on her phone, buying the very ground we stood on.

“You can’t do this,” I yelled.

Caroline ignored me. She looked at Thomas.

“I told you, Thomas. You don’t destroy an empire because of a few bruised feelings. The police officers you called? They met my lawyer at the gate of the yard. I told them you had a psychotic break and assaulted me. My bodyguard corroborated the story.”

She held up her wrists, showing red marks.

“I can have you arrested for domestic terrorism right now. And as for your dear, resurrected father…”

She sneered at Arthur, who was clutching his rosary, his hands trembling.

“He is a legally dead man with no identification, squatting on my property. My security team will remove him. And if he accidentally falls out of his wheelchair into traffic on the way to the shelter… well, tragedies happen.”

Thomas’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles bled.

“I have the deed, Caroline,” Thomas said, his voice vibrating with rage. “I have Richard’s confession letter. I have John’s testimony. I will burn your company to the ground.”

Caroline smiled patiently.

She gestured to the lawyer.

The lawyer pulled a thick, bound document from his briefcase and handed it to Thomas.

“What is this?” Thomas snapped.

“That,” Caroline said, “is our prenuptial agreement. Specifically, the clause regarding the merger of Vance and Bishop Construction. The clause you signed when you were twenty-four, naive, and entirely too in love with me.”

Thomas flipped open the document, reading rapidly.

His face went ashen.

“In the event of a dispute regarding the foundational assets of the merger,” Caroline recited from memory, “all executive control defaults to the Vance majority shareholder. Which is me.”

She took a step closer, her eyes gleaming with malice.

“You signed away your rights to your own father’s company, Thomas. The deed you found? It’s a Vance asset. The confession letter? Vance intellectual property. If you take this to court, my lawyers will tie you up for two decades. You’ll go bankrupt. Rachel will go to prison for assault. Her son will be expelled.”

Caroline looked at me, a victorious smirk on her face.

“And I will still be sitting in the CEO’s chair.”

Thomas dropped the document onto the floor.

He looked utterly defeated.

He looked back at his father. Arthur gave him a sad, resigned smile, as if to say, It’s okay, son. Let it go.

Caroline had won.

She had endless money, endless lawyers, and an impenetrable web of legal protection.

She turned on her heel to leave, signaling her men to grab Arthur.

“Wait,” I said.

My voice echoed in the silent church.

Caroline stopped and looked over her shoulder, annoyed.

“What do you want, waitress?”

I stepped forward.

My heart was racing, but my mind was suddenly, perfectly clear.

I remembered something.

Something from the restaurant. Something from hours ago, before the vault, before the bulldozer, before the chaos.

“You said the confession letter belongs to Vance Construction,” I said, my voice steadying.

“Yes,” Caroline said, rolling her eyes. “It was written by the founder. It is corporate property.”

“And the deed?” I asked.

“Also corporate property.”

I reached into my coat pocket.

“Then what about this?” I asked.

I pulled out the silver pocket watch.

The watch with Arthur Bishop’s blood on the casing. The watch with the photo of my father holding the dynamite, standing next to Richard Vance.

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “A piece of junk jewelry. Keep it.”

“It’s not just jewelry,” I said, popping the lid open. “It has a photograph inside.”

“I don’t care about a photograph of your dead criminal father,” Caroline spat.

“I know you don't,” I said. “But you should care about what’s etched into the back of the watch face.”

Thomas looked at me, confused. “Rachel, what are you talking about?”

I turned the watch around so Thomas could see the inside of the silver casing, right behind where the photo was tucked.

When Thomas and I had been in the vault, before the lights went out, I had noticed something scratched into the silver. I hadn't had time to read it then.

But I read it now.

It was a series of numbers.

“04-12-88-90,” I read aloud.

Caroline frowned. “So what? A serial number.”

“No,” John Vance said from the shadows.

He stepped forward, his eyes wide. He looked at the numbers on the watch.

“That’s not a serial number,” John said, his voice trembling with realization. “That’s a bank account routing number. An offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”

Caroline’s face lost a fraction of its color.

“Richard didn't just embezzle pension funds,” John continued, looking at Caroline. “He hid the money. Millions of dollars. He hid it before the collapse. He told Arthur about it when they were arguing on the site.”

John looked at Thomas.

“Arthur scratched the account number into his watch while we were trapped under the rubble. He wanted to make sure there was proof of the embezzlement.”

“So what?” Caroline scoffed, though her voice was slightly higher now. “The statute of limitations on embezzlement from 1998 is long gone.”

“Not for embezzlement,” the lawyer beside her suddenly said, his face going pale.

Caroline whipped her head toward him. “What are you talking about? Shut up!”

The lawyer took a step away from Caroline.

“Mrs. Bishop,” the lawyer said nervously. “If that account still exists, and it holds stolen corporate funds… and you used those funds to finance the merger…”

“It’s wire fraud,” Thomas said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.

“Federal wire fraud,” the lawyer corrected. “And money laundering. There is no statute of limitations on ongoing money laundering.”

Thomas looked at Caroline.

The color completely drained from her face.

“You used that offshore money to build Hawthorne Grill, didn't you, Caroline?” Thomas asked. “You used it to buy this church tonight. You’ve been using stolen money to fund your entire lifestyle.”

Caroline backed away. “You have no proof! A scratched number on a watch means nothing!”

“It means enough for the FBI to open a forensic audit on every penny Vance Construction has spent in the last twenty-five years,” Thomas said.

He pulled out his phone.

“Let’s see how much your prenuptial agreement protects you when the SEC seizes all your assets by tomorrow morning.”

Caroline let out a guttural scream of pure panic.

She lunged at me, trying to grab the watch.

But Leo was faster.

He stepped in front of me and shoved Caroline backward.

She tripped over her expensive heels and fell hard onto the stone floor of the church, landing right at the feet of the security men she had hired.

“Help me!” Caroline screamed at the men. “Grab the watch!”

The men looked at her. Then they looked at the lawyer.

The lawyer slowly closed his briefcase.