My brother smirked as he claimed everything I owned belonged to the family, but when the clerk began reading my asset disclosure, his smile vanished…

The Davidson County Historic Courthouse smelled of floor stripper, wet wool coats, and three generations of political horse-trading.

When Henley and I stepped out of the elevators on the fourth floor at eight-fifteen that morning, the corridor outside Courtroom 4B was already occupied.

Gordon Mallerie was standing beneath an oil portrait of a nineteenth-century governor, holding court. He was wearing his double-breasted charcoal overcoat with the velvet collar, gesturing with an unlit cigar as he spoke to two men in dark suits—likely the representatives from Marcus Ruiz’s private lending syndicate, brought along to witness their collateral being legally processed.

Ronin was leaning against the marble water fountain, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his face glowing with that sharp, manic energy that always took hold of him when he thought he had won without running the race.

Eleanor sat on a polished wooden bench nearby, her silver fox wrap pulled tight around her throat, looking down at her manicured nails as if she were waiting for the commencement of an unpleasant but necessary opera.

As I walked past them toward the conference rooms, Ronin stepped forward, blocking my path with an easy, mocking swagger.

“Look who found a necktie,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry to the bailiff standing fifty feet away. “You look nervous, Brier. You sleeping okay? Mom said you looked pale in the hallway. We talked to Dr. Vance this morning. He says the Williamson County facility has a really nice garden. Very peaceful. Lots of trees. Good for the... nerves.”

I stopped. I didn't back up. I didn't lean forward.

I looked at my brother’s eyes. Behind the swagger, behind the expensive dental veneers and the three-hundred-dollar haircut, there was a tiny, vibrating knot of sheer terror. His pupils were dilated; his jaw muscles were working against each other. He was smelling the fire that was already licking at the foundation of his firm, and he was praying that my flesh would be enough to smother it.

“Good morning, Ronin,” I said softly.

“That’s it?” he chuckled, looking back at Dad. “*Good morning, Ronin?* No insults? No high-tech speeches?”

“I hope your suit is comfortable,” I said.

“What?”

“The fabric,” I remarked, my voice smooth as pond ice. “It’s difficult to sit in wool for long periods in small rooms. You should have worn cotton.”

Ronin’s smile flickered, a sudden shadow of confusion crossing his brow.

“You’re out of your mind,” he spat, though the volume had dropped half an octave. “You’re completely insane.”

Gordon stepped up then, placing a heavy, ringed hand on Ronin’s shoulder. His face was set in that familiar, heavy-lidded expression of disappointed authority that had paralyzed me throughout my childhood.

“Brier,” my father said, his voice dropping into its lowest, most resonant baritone. “It doesn't have to be like this in there. You can still tell Harriston we’ve reached an agreement. We can keep this private. Your mother doesn't need to hear your medical issues aired before Chancellor Whitmore. Have some dignity. Think about the family name.”

“You brought the petition, Gordon,” I said. I had not called him *Dad* since the night I left East Nashville.

His jaw tightened. A dark, dangerous flush rose from beneath his starched white collar.

“You stubborn little fool,” Gordon hissed, leaning close enough that I could smell the peppermint he was chewing to mask the stale tobacco on his breath. “You think you’re an island? You’re a Mallerie. Everything you have, you have because of the name I built in this town. You think those tech people would have looked at you if you were named Smith? You owe this house. And by God, today I’m collecting.”

Elena Vance stepped between us, her leather briefcase clicking against Gordon’s knee with intentional force.

“Mr. Mallerie,” Elena said, her voice cutting through the corridor like a wet whip. “If you address my client directly again outside the presence of your counsel, I will have the bailiff take you into custody for witness tampering before Chancellor Whitmore takes the bench. Step back. Now.”

Gordon chuckled, a low, wet sound, but he stepped back. He looked at Elena with the dismissive amusement of an old Southern bull who had tossed twenty younger lawyers over the fence in his career.

“Give it your best shot, little lady,” Gordon murmured. “We’ve been in this courthouse since you were in middle school.”

The heavy oak doors of Courtroom 4B swung open.

“All rise!” the bailiff called out from the darkness within.