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

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I watched the live camera feed on my phone screen. Federal agents were carrying boxes out of my study, seizing hard drives, file folders, and financial documents. Emily stood near the grand staircase, comforting a sobbing staff member while whispering into the ear of a man in an expensive suit—the lead agent.

"They're executing the warrant based on the fake charity records," Marcus said, his voice clipped and urgent. "If you go back there now, Christian, they will arrest you on the spot."

"I have to go back," I said, my teeth grit so hard my jaw burned. "If I run, I look guilty. That’s exactly what she wants."

"You go back, you go to jail," Marcus countered, gripping my shoulder. "We need to hit them where they aren't looking. Emily thinks she’s controlled the narrative, but she doesn't know we have Julian’s private drive. We need hard, undeniable evidence connecting her to the execution of those wire transfers, not just Julian."

"How do we get that?" I asked.

"Camila," Marcus said softly, turning back toward the apartment building. "She said Emily spent time in the guesthouse. That’s where the secondary terminal was located."

We hurried back up the stairs. Rosa met us at the door, her face pale with worry. I quickly explained the situation. Without a second thought, Rosa reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key ring.

"This is the master key for the guesthouse," Rosa said, her voice shaking but resolute. "Miss Emily changed the electronic keypads last month, but she forgot that the old mechanical lock on the wine cellar door in the basement still works. It leads right inside."

"Rosa, if they find out you gave me this..."

"You are a good man, Mr. Bennett," Rosa interrupted fiercely. "You gave us cash when you didn't have to. You treated my daughter with respect. Miss Emily is a snake. Take the key."

With the master key in hand, Marcus and I bypassed the front gate of my estate under the cover of dusk, parking two streets over and sneaking in through the dense foliage along the eastern boundary of the property. The main house was illuminated by flashing red and blue lights from police cruisers, but the guesthouse at the far edge of the grounds remained dark and quiet.

We slipped through the side entrance, slid down the damp stairs to the wine cellar, and used Rosa's mechanical key. The lock turned with a heavy click.