Marcus Hale had an office on the fourteenth floor of a building in the financial district with a view of the river and a receptionist who smiled at everyone with equal warmth.

Ethan had been to that office dozens of times.

He went again that afternoon.

He didn't call ahead.

The receptionist looked up.

"Mr.

Calloway.

Do you have an appointment—"

"He'll see me."

He walked past her to the inner office and opened the door.

Marcus was on the phone.

He was a broad man, well-dressed, with the particular ease of someone who had never been caught at anything.

When he saw Ethan, something moved behind his eyes — very fast, very small — and then his face settled back into its usual expression.

He held up one finger and finished his call.

"Ethan." He stood and extended his hand.

"I wasn't expecting you."

Ethan didn't take the hand.

He closed the door behind him and sat down across the desk.

Marcus lowered himself back into his chair.

"Everything all right?"

"Tell me about the transfers."

A pause.

"Which transfers?"

"The ones from the subsidiary account.

Six months of them.

Routed through the holding structure we set up in 2019." Ethan placed his phone on the desk, screen up, showing the spreadsheet Daniel's forensic accountant had put together that morning.

"That one."

Marcus looked at the screen.

He didn't touch it.

"There's been some restructuring," he said.

"I was going to brief you next week."

"Restructuring."

"The market shifted in Q2.

I made some defensive moves to protect the position.

I should have looped you in sooner — that's on me."

"You moved four hundred and sixty thousand dollars without my authorization or signature."

"Ethan—"

"And you met with my wife six weeks ago in my house while I was in Singapore."

The room went quiet.

Marcus leaned back.

The ease was still there, but it had changed quality — it was no longer relaxed.

It was careful.

"She called me," he said.

"She was concerned about you.

She said you'd been under pressure, making erratic decisions.

She wanted a second opinion on the company's direction."

"She wanted to know how much she could take."

"That's not—"

"How long have you been working with her?"

"I haven't been working with her.

She reached out.

I listened.

That's all."

"The transfers started eight months ago, Marcus.

Two months before she contacted you." Ethan picked up his phone.

"So either you're lying about when this started, or there's a third person I haven't found yet."

Marcus said nothing.

"Which is it?"

"You're under a lot of stress.

What happened with Lily last night—"

"Don't say her name."

Marcus stopped.

"Don't say my daughter's name in this conversation." Ethan stood.

"I came here to give you one opportunity to tell me the truth before my attorney files the full complaint.

That window closes when I walk out of this office."

Marcus looked at the desk.

Then at the window.

Then at Ethan.

"You can't prove intent," he said quietly.

"The transfers are defensible as business decisions.

It'll take years to litigate.

You'll spend more fighting it than you'd ever recover."

"Maybe." Ethan picked up his phone.

"But you'll spend those same years with your name on a fraud filing.

And the people you do business with will know about it on day one."

He walked to the door.

"Ethan." Marcus's voice had changed.

The ease was gone entirely.

What was left was something smaller and much less comfortable.

"What do you want?"

Ethan turned around.

"I want a full accounting of every transfer.

I want the money returned.

And I want your resignation from the partnership, signed and delivered to Daniel Rourke's office by Friday." He paused.

"If I don't have all three, I file Monday morning."

He left without waiting for an answer.

In the elevator going down, his phone buzzed.

A message from Daniel: *Forensic accountant found a second account.

Vivian's name is on it.*

Ethan read it twice.

The elevator reached the ground floor.

The doors opened.

He stepped out into the lobby and kept walking.