My mother locked me in a room with five high-powered lawyers and expected me to sign away everything my father had left me. What she didn’t know was that I wasn’t the ordinary government employee my family had always dismissed me as. I was Colonel Sienna Sterling, commander of a specialized military intelligence unit, and while she thought she was cornering a grieving daughter, I was quietly counting the five attorneys around the table and waiting for them to discover that I had prepared an ambush of my own. –

Julian stared.

“What is that?”

“My preparation.”

My mother’s face tightened.

“You came here planning this?”

“I came here expecting pressure. The documents are your contribution.”

I opened the notebook.

Three weeks earlier.

The day after the funeral.

That was when my father’s longtime accountant, Daniel Mercer, had called me.

He hadn’t accused anyone.

He hadn’t needed to.

He had simply said, “Your father told me that if anything happened unexpectedly, I was to give you a sentence.”

“What sentence?”

“Check the Boston taxes before you discuss the will.”

So I had.

Quietly.

The Boston house had no mortgage.

No tax liens.

No ownership dispute.

But seven months earlier, a title company had ordered a preliminary ownership report.

Three days after that, a luxury real estate broker had prepared an off-market valuation.

Two weeks later, a draft purchase agreement had been created.

Seller:

Arthur Sterling.

Except Dad had never signed it.

The broker’s correspondence had been with someone claiming to act as his authorized representative.

Victoria Sterling.

My mother.