A nine-year-old girl stopped me inside my own Beverly Hills mansion and accused me of lying.

"You work too hard, little brother," Emily murmured, taking a seat across from Marcus without offering him a second glance. "You really should leave the household operations to me. You know how stressful managing the staff can be."

"Is that right?" I asked, leaning back in my leather chair. "Actually, Emily, I was just looking over Rosa’s file. It seems there’s been a glitch with her pay."

For a fraction of a second, Emily’s left eyelid flickered. It was a subtle twitch that only someone who had grown up with her would ever notice. But within a heartbeat, her polished mask snapped back into place.

"Oh, poor Rosa," Emily sighed, shaking her head with exaggerated sympathy. "I meant to tell you about that. She’s been having so many personal issues lately. Her daughter has health problems, I think. I actually set up a small assistance fund through our foundation to help her out last week."

The sheer nerve of her lie took my breath away. She spoke with such casual grace that if I hadn't seen the digital bank receipts ten minutes earlier, I would have believed her completely.

"That's very generous of you," I said softly. "How much did you give her?"

"Just a few thousand," Emily replied effortlessly. "Whatever the foundation could spare. Anyway, darling, I need you to sign a quick operational waiver for the upcoming annual gala. Julian and I are hosting it here on Friday."

She slid a sleek leather folder across my desk. I opened it. Buried deep within twelve pages of dense legal jargon was a clause that granted Emily full executive control over the Bennett Family Foundation's primary trust account—an account holding over $40 million in assets left behind by our late parents.

She wasn't just trying to steal $5 million. She was aiming to empty the entire family chest.

"I'll review this tonight and sign it tomorrow," I said, closing the folder.

Emily’s smile tightened slightly. "It’s somewhat time-sensitive, Christian. The vendors need confirmation."

"Tomorrow, Emily," I repeated, my tone dropping an octave.

She studied my face for three agonizing seconds before standing up, smoothing her trousers, and smiling brightly. "Of course. Don't work too late."

The moment her heels stopped clicking down the marble hallway, Marcus turned to me. "She knows you're suspicious."

"I know," I said. "And that makes her dangerous. We need to go visit Rosa."

An hour later, Marcus and I pulled up to a dilapidated apartment complex in East Los Angeles. The contrast between my sprawling estate and this crumbling brick building was sickening. As we walked up the dimly lit staircase to the third floor, we saw an eviction notice posted on door 3B.

Rosa opened the door. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. When she saw me standing there, her body stiffened with fear and confusion.