The moment my husband’s mistress struck my five-year-old daughter hard enough to knock two baby teeth onto the marble floor, something inside me went completely still. Spencer barely looked up before saying, “Stop making such a big deal out of it,” while Hazel stood there bleeding—and that was the moment I decided I was done protecting any of them.

In the penthouse suite of the St. Regis Hotel, Spencer Albright smoothed the lapels of his Tom Ford tuxedo in front of a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror.

He took a slow sip of his 1996 Dom Pérignon, letting the crisp bubbles linger on his tongue.

"You look like royalty, darling," Cassandra murmured, stepping up behind him. She was wearing an ivory satin evening gown dripping with emeralds—jewelry that had been purchased using Spencer’s primary corporate expense account three days prior.

"Royalty is an understatement, Cassie," Spencer chuckled, placing his arm around her waist. "Tonight, at the Grand Pinnacle Gala, Senator Vance is going to officially announce Albright Enterprises as the lead developer for the five-hundred-million-dollar downtown harbor project. Once that contract is signed, my father-in-law's memory won't even matter anymore."

Cassandra giggled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "And what about that pathetic creature you left at the house? Did she actually sign the divorce papers?"

Spencer scoffed, dismissing the thought with a wave of his glass. "Gwen signed them. Throwing her out was easier than taking out the trash. She crossed out the custody clause regarding Hazel, but it doesn't matter. Tomorrow morning, my lawyers will file an emergency petition declaring her mentally unstable and unfit. We'll keep the child for tax write-offs and let my mother raise her properly."

"Your mother was so brave today," Cassandra smiled viciously. "That little brat ruined my six-thousand-dollar silk dress with her disgusting mouth blood. She deserved every slap."

"Forget about them," Spencer said, checking his diamond Patek Philippe watch. "It’s 6:45 PM. The limousine is waiting downstairs. Tonight is our night."

Suddenly, Spencer’s iPhone on the marble vanity began to vibrate violently.

He glanced at the screen. It was his Chief Financial Officer, Arthur Pendelton.

"Don't take business calls now, Spencer," Cassandra pouted, running her fingers down his chest. "We’re going to be late for the red carpet."

"It'll take ten seconds," Spencer said, pressing the phone to his ear. "Arthur? I told you not to bother me until tomorrow morning—"

"Spencer! Where the hell are you?!" Arthur’s voice screamed through the speaker, so loud that Cassandra flinched. He sounded breathless, frantic, bordering on psychotic.

Spencer’s brow furrowed. "Watch your tone, Arthur. I’m at the St. Regis preparing for the Pinnacle Gala."

"There is no gala! There is no harbor contract! Spencer, what the fuck did you do?!" Arthur roared. "Ten minutes ago, Crawford Capital pulled their entire thirty-million-dollar credit facility! They called the loan due immediately! With zero notice!"

Spencer froze, his champagne glass hovering mid-air. "What? Crawford Capital? That’s impossible! We’ve had that bridge loan for three years! Why would they pull it now?"

"It gets worse!" Arthur choked out, coughing soundlessly. "Every bank in North America just locked our accounts! Our corporate credit cards, our payroll accounts, our secondary investment funds—everything is frozen under an emergency federal financial fraud audit!"

Spencer’s face turned pale gray. A cold bead of sweat trickled down his temple, spoiling his immaculate foundation.

"Audit? What fraud audit?!" Spencer stammered, his voice dropping an octave into pure panic. "Who reported us?!"

"I don't know!" Arthur cried. "The Treasury Department just served a federal subpoena on our headquarters! Federal agents are literally walking through the lobby right now confiscating our server towers! If you don't find thirty million dollars in liquid cash before midnight, Albright Enterprises will enter forced liquidation by tomorrow morning!"

"Spencer?" Cassandra asked, her smile fading as she watched her lover’s face turn white as a bedsheet. "What’s wrong? What’s going on?"

Spencer swallowed hard, his chest heaving under his tuxedo.

"It’s... it’s just a glitch," Spencer lied, though his hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped his phone. "Some low-level bureaucrat at Crawford Capital made a paperwork error. I’ll call Senator Vance at the gala. He has influence over the state banking board. One word from him and all this nonsense will be cleared up."

His phone vibrated again. This time it was his mother, Patricia.

"Spencer!" Patricia shrieked the moment he answered. "The private security company just showed up at the Bel Air estate! They told me my black American Express card was canceled, and they are repossessing the Bentley parked in the driveway!"

"Mother, calm down!" Spencer snapped, panicking. "Listen to me! Put your coat on and get into the Mercedes. Meet us at the Crystal Ballroom immediately! Senator Vance will fix everything!"