Chapter 3

The meeting was scheduled at The Langford, the most exclusive private club in Manhattan. Only members with a net worth exceeding $500 million were permitted entry. Grandfather had been a founding member.

I prepared meticulously. My team of analysts dissected every public filing Cross Industries had ever produced. The picture was worse than we thought — Richard Moore hadn't just been hiding losses. He'd been funneling company funds into personal accounts. Cross Industries was a ticking time bomb, and Ethan was either complicit or oblivious.

Neither option painted him in a good light.

On the morning of the meeting, I stood in front of my mirror. The woman staring back bore little resemblance to the one who'd walked out of Cross Tower three years ago.

My stylist had selected a black Valentino suit that fit like armor. My hair was pulled back. My makeup was minimal but flawless. Around my neck hung a single pendant — a diamond that had belonged to my grandmother.

"You look like you're going to war," Noah, Grandfather's head of security, remarked from the doorway.

"I am," I replied.

…

I arrived at The Langford fifteen minutes early. My team — two senior analysts and my legal counsel — were already seated in the private meeting room.

Then the door opened, and Ethan walked in.

Three years had changed him. He looked polished, expensive — but there was tension around his eyes that hadn't been there before. Behind him came Richard Moore, a heavyset man with a politician's smile, and Vanessa, who apparently now served as Ethan's Chief Strategy Officer.

Ethan scanned the room. His gaze moved over my analysts, my lawyer, and then landed on me.

He stopped walking.

I watched the recognition hit him like a physical blow. His lips parted. The color drained from his face.

"Serena?"

The room went still.

Richard Moore looked between us, confused. "You two know each other?"

I didn't flinch. Didn't blink. I extended my hand as if greeting a stranger.

"Mr. Cross. Please, have a seat. We have a lot to discuss."

Ethan didn't take my hand. He was still staring at me as if he'd seen a ghost.

"What the hell is going on?" he breathed. "You — you're with the Aldrich Group?"

"I am the Aldrich Group," I corrected. "At least, the division you'll be negotiating with today. Shall we begin?"

Vanessa's face twisted. She grabbed Ethan's arm and hissed, "That's your ex-wife?"

Richard Moore's politician smile vanished. He suddenly looked like a man who realized he'd walked into a trap.

I gestured to the chairs. "Please. Sit down."

They sat.

I opened the folder in front of me and laid out every piece of evidence my team had gathered — the hidden losses, the misallocated funds, the fraudulent filings.

"Cross Industries is approximately four months from insolvency," I stated. "Mr. Moore has been siphoning funds through three shell companies registered in the Caymans. Your European expansion is leveraged against assets that are already underwater."

The room was deathly silent.

Ethan's jaw tightened. He looked at Richard, who had gone pale. "Is this true?"

Richard stammered, "These numbers are — this is — you can't possibly—"

"Every figure is sourced and verified," my legal counsel interjected. "We can provide the full audit trail."

Ethan turned back to me. The shock in his eyes had been replaced by something more complicated — a mixture of disbelief and what almost looked like awe.

"You did all this?" he asked quietly.

"I've been doing things like this for two years, Ethan. You just never bothered to notice what I was capable of."

Vanessa slammed her hand on the table. "This is a setup! She's doing this because she's bitter about the divorce!"

I didn't even glance at her. I kept my eyes on Ethan.

"Here's what's going to happen. The Aldrich Group is prepared to acquire Cross Industries' viable assets at fair market value — which, given your current liabilities, is roughly thirty cents on the dollar. You'll retain operational control of the tech division under our oversight. Mr. Moore will face a full forensic audit, and any criminal findings will be referred to the appropriate authorities."

Richard shot to his feet. "You can't do this!"

"Sit down, Mr. Moore," I said calmly. "Or my next call is to the SEC."

He sat.

Ethan hadn't moved. He was still watching me with that strange, unreadable expression.

"And if I refuse?" he asked.

I closed the folder. "Then Cross Industries files for bankruptcy within four months. Your employees lose their jobs. Your investors lose everything. And Mr. Moore goes to prison regardless, because this evidence is going to the regulators either way."

I stood. "You have seventy-two hours to decide. My office will send the formal proposal by end of day."

As I walked past Ethan toward the door, he caught my wrist. His touch sent an unwanted jolt through me — muscle memory from a life I'd buried.

"Serena, wait. Can we talk? Just us?"

I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then up at his face.

"You had three years to talk to me, Ethan. You didn't even send a text."

I pulled my wrist free and walked out, my heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown.