The morning light was harsh, illuminating the bloodstains on the expensive Egyptian cotton. Julian’s fever had broken, but the silence of the house was shattered by the rhythmic thud of a heavy brass knocker at the front door.

Elara looked out the window. Four black SUVs. Men in windbreakers with "FEDERAL AGENT" emblazoned in gold.

"Julian," she whispered, shaking him awake. "They’re here. Not the assassins. The Law."

Julian groaned, his face tightening as he shifted his wounded shoulder. He looked at the torn contract on the floor, then up at Elara. A flicker of something—gratitude? Fear?—crossed his eyes.

"The ledger," he rasped. "In the headboard. A hidden latch."

Elara found it—a heavy, leather-bound book that felt like a tombstone.

"If they find this, I’m gone for life," Julian said, struggling to sit up. "And you’re a co-conspirator. Hide it. Now."

She didn't have time to think. She shoved the ledger into her cello case, padding it with her sheet music.

The bedroom door burst open. Lead Agent Miller, a man with eyes like flint, stepped in. "Julian Vane. You’re under arrest for the obstruction of justice and suspicion of corporate manslaughter."

Julian didn't fight. He stood, tall and regal even in his bloodied undershirt. "On what evidence, Miller?"

"A tip-off. From your 'fiancée's' best friend."

Elara’s heart stopped. Sarah. ---