The ballroom of the Grand Imperial Hotel was a gilded cage, a cavernous space where the air hung heavy with the cloying scent of expensive lilies and the brittle, artificial laughter of the city’s elite.

Victoria looked disheveled, her makeup smeared, her eyes wide with a manic, desperate energy.

"I knew you were a thief!" Victoria screamed, pointing the gun directly at Clara’s chest. "You think you can just walk in here and steal my life? I am Victoria Sterling! This is my hotel!"

"It was never yours, Victoria," Clara said calmly, stepping in front of Alexander. She refused to cower. Not anymore. "Your father is a fraud and a murderer."

"Shut up!" Victoria cocked the hammer. "I’ll kill you right now. I’ll say you broke in to rob us."

"And then what?" Alexander asked, his voice dark and lethal. "I have dead-man switches on my servers, Victoria. If Clara and I die, all of your father’s financial crimes go directly to the FBI. You shoot her, and you spend the rest of your life in a concrete cell."

Victoria’s hand trembled. She looked at Clara, the woman she had poured wine on, the woman she had viewed as absolute garbage. Now, Clara stood there draped in designer clothes, radiating power, holding the keys to the kingdom.

"Put the gun down, Victoria," Clara said, taking a slow step forward. "It's over. The only choice you have left is whether you go down with your father, or if you walk away."

Victoria sobbed, a pathetic, broken sound. Her arm dropped. The gun clattered to the floor.

Alexander quickly kicked the weapon away and secured the documents in his briefcase.