Julian.

The photograph was still in my hand when my father walked into my study without knocking.

I didn't put it down. I wanted him to see that I knew.

"You got my message," Thomas said. He moved to the bar like he owned it, technically, he'd paid for everything in this penthouse eight years ago. He poured himself scotch without asking. "Good."

I set the photo on my desk, face-up. The image stared at both of us: Lena at maybe twelve, bruised cheek, split lip, crying in a corner. On the back, the threat about her mother's death and a demand for millions to keep secrets buried.

"This was...