Nora POV:
The office wasn't much. Three rooms on the fourth floor of a converted warehouse in Dumbo. Exposed brick. Uneven floors. A window facing the Manhattan Bridge instead of the skyline—which meant the rent was half what it would've been two blocks over.
I loved it.
"This is depressing," Amira announced, setting a box of office supplies on the only desk. "We have a view of a bridge. Not the pretty one. The one with subway cars."
"The Brooklyn Bridge is overrated."
"The Brooklyn Bridge is iconic. This is the Manhattan Bridge. It has trains. We're going to hear trains all day."
"White noise." I ran my hand over the exposed brick. "Good for concentration."
Amira stared at me. "You're insane. I've partnered with an insane person."
But she was smiling.
We spent the morning setting up. Two desks—one for me, one for her. A whiteboard covering most of one wall. Filing cabinets salvaged from her old firm's renovation. A coffee maker that cost more than my first car and was, according to Amira, "non-negotiable."
By noon, it looked like a real office. Small. Scrappy. Ours.
Amira hung the framed business license—KIDD FORENSIC CONSULTING, LLC—and stepped back.
"Looks official."
"It is official."
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen.
Brittney Sterling.
She'd texted three times since yesterday. Each message more insistent than the last. I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking for fifteen minutes. You'll want to hear what I have to say.
I still hadn't responded.
"You going to answer that?" Amira asked, not looking up from her laptop.
"I don't know yet."
"She's the one Ernestina was grooming to replace you. The trust lawyer."
"I know who she is."
"And she wants to meet. About Ernestina."
"I know, Amira."
Amira finally looked at me. "What are you afraid of?"
The question hung in the air. What was I afraid of? That Brittney was a spy sent by Ernestina? That she was trying to get close to me to gather information? That she was exactly what she appeared to be—a woman who'd realized she was being used as a pawn, just like I had been?
"I'm not afraid," I said. "I'm cautious. There's a difference."
"Cautious is smart. Paralyzed is not."
I looked out the window. The Manhattan Bridge glittered in the afternoon sun. A train rumbled across, shaking the floor.
"Fine." I picked up my phone.
"Tomorrow. 10 a.m. My office. Come alone."
Three dots appeared immediately.
"I'll be there."
Brittney Sterling arrived at exactly ten o'clock.
She was taller than I remembered from the photos. Blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Navy suit, cream blouse, pearls at her ears. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement—the kind of woman Ernestina Farmer would handpick to be her son's wife.
But her eyes were different. Not calculating. Wary. Like she was walking into a room she wasn't sure she'd walk out of.
"Ms. Kidd."
"Ms. Sterling."
She sat across from me. Crossed her legs. Placed her bag on the floor with deliberate care.
"Thank you for meeting me."
"You said you had information about Ernestina."
"I do." She paused. "I also have a proposal."
I waited.
"I've been working with Ernestina for six months. Restructuring the family trust. She hired my firm because I specialize in asset protection and valuation methodologies." She paused again. "I thought I was doing legitimate work. Tax optimization. Estate planning. The usual."
"And then?"
"And then I found the discrepancies." She pulled a folder from her bag. Slid it across the desk. "Valuation discounts that don't align with the underlying assets. Offshore accounts that aren't properly disclosed. And a series of transactions between the trust and Farmer Capital that look a lot like self-dealing."
I opened the folder. Scanned the first page.
It was worse than I'd thought.
"You're a trust lawyer," I said. "Why bring this to me instead of handling it internally?"
Brittney's composure flickered. Just for a moment.
"Because I asked Ernestina about the discrepancies three weeks ago. She smiled. Told me not to worry. Said she'd have her 'people' look into it." Her jaw tightened. "The next day, my firm received an anonymous complaint about my work. A complaint that could jeopardize my partnership track. Filed by someone with enough detail to know things only Ernestina would know."
"She's setting you up."
"She's protecting herself. The same way she protected Colton for years. The same way she tried to erase you." Brittney leaned forward. "I'm not here to be Colton's wife, Ms. Kidd. I'm not here to be Ernestina's pawn. I'm here because I've spent six months untangling a web of financial manipulation that makes your compliance files look like a parking ticket. And I need someone who understands the numbers the way I understand the law."
I looked at her—really looked. The perfect posture. The expensive suit. The pearls that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
And underneath all of it, the same exhaustion I recognized. The exhaustion of being used.
"What's your proposal?"
"We combine what we know. Your compliance records. My trust documentation. Together, we have enough to trigger not just an SEC review—but an IRS audit, a trustee investigation, and possibly a criminal referral." She paused. "I don't want to destroy Ernestina Farmer. I want to make sure she can never do to anyone else what she did to you. And what she tried to do to me."
I closed the folder. Thought about the file I'd left on Colton's desk. The one that had been sitting there for three days now, waiting for him to find it.
"I have something you haven't seen yet. A file that ties the trust's valuation directly to the compliance record I maintained at Farmer Capital. If Ernestina claims the trust is worth what she says it is, she's relying on the firm's clean record. A record I created."
Brittney's eyes widened. "You have proof?"
"I have everything. Time-stamped. Documented. Cross-referenced."
She exhaled. For the first time since she'd walked in, her shoulders dropped. Just slightly.
"Then we have leverage. Real leverage."
"We do."
"What do you want to do with it?"
I looked out the window. The Manhattan Bridge. The trains. The city that had no idea what was happening in this small office.
"I want Ernestina to know what it feels like to be afraid. Not of losing money—of losing control. Of being exposed. Of having everything she's built turn out to be hollow."
Brittney was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
"I can help with that."
She stood. Smoothed her skirt. Paused at the door.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"Colton doesn't know about any of this. Not the trust irregularities. Not my meeting with you. Not what his mother tried to do to me." She looked at me. "I thought you should know. He's not part of this. Whatever he did to you—he's not his mother. I've worked with enough family dynasties to know the difference."
She walked out.
I sat alone in my office, the folder still open on my desk, and thought about what she'd said.
Colton wasn't his mother.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But it didn't matter. This wasn't about him anymore.
This was about me. And Iris. And the life I was building that had nothing to do with the Farmer family.
My phone buzzed. Amira.
"Fernando Hooper's office called. They want to meet. Tuesday. His entire executive team."
I looked at the folder. At the trust documents. At the compliance files.
"Tell them I'll be there."
