After that, Justin behaved himself for a while.

Daily reports came in on time. The restaurants he booked were ones I actually liked. My calendar ran clean.

Vivienne didn't show her face again.

I figured he'd learned his lesson.

Then last week, he started coming in late.

Monday—twenty minutes late. Subway signal issue, he said.

Wednesday, fifteen minutes. Broken elevator.

Friday, half an hour. Dead phone, alarm didn't go off.

I didn't bother calling him out. I was busy. And there was still his mother to think about.

What finally caught my attention was an expense report.

Friday afternoon, Connie from finance brought me a stack of receipts to sign off on.

I flipped to the back and stopped.

Seven restaurant charges in a row. All billed to my business entertainment account.

Amounts ran from three thousand to twelve thousand.

Six different Michelin-starred restaurants. Plus one private club.

All this month.

Every line read the same: "Business entertainment, Ms. Sinclair."

I had never set foot in any of those places that month.

I called Justin in. "These charges. You remember these?"

He leaned over. Took a quick look. Smiled.

"Oh, those. A few partner companies came in last month for site visits. I set up the dinners while you were traveling. Didn't want to bother you. I handled it myself."

I pulled up my calendar.

He was right that I'd been out of town those days. But no partners had come in for site visits. Not one.

I didn't push it. Just nodded. "Loop me in next time."

"Of course, Ms. Sinclair, of course." He smiled and walked out.

The second the door closed, I called the front desk at the Round Table.

"Can you pull up a record for me? Night of the twelfth, dinner charged to my account. How many people. Which room."

"One moment, Ms. Sinclair." Pause. "VIP Room 2. Party of eight. Your assistant Justin made the booking. Said it was an important client of yours."

"Eight?"

"Yes. He brought a young woman. The other six came with her."

So that was the "business entertainment." Justin, Vivienne, and her friends. Eating on my account.

"Anything they said during dinner?"

She hesitated. "The young woman was pretty loud. Something about how her boyfriend ran a big business, and all those restaurants were under contract with him. Eat whatever, basically."

I hung up.

I opened my laptop and pulled every charge Justin had run through the company this month.

Seven restaurants. Three high-end florists. Two luxury orders. One five-star hotel stay.

All under "general operating expenses." All labeled "Ms. Sinclair."

Grand total: one hundred and thirty-seven thousand.

I closed the folder.

Mrs. Brennan. You raised yourself one hell of a son.

I didn't confront Justin right away.

Not because I felt sorry for him. I wanted to see how far he'd go.

The answer came faster than I expected.

Saturday afternoon. I was heading out to my place in the hills for a couple of days off.

I'd bought the property three years ago. Quiet area. I stayed there now and then.

Before I left, I called Justin out of habit. Wanted him to check that the cleaning service had been by.

He sounded edgy on the phone.

"Ms. Sinclair, there's actually some plumbing work going on at the house today. Property management said it's not livable until next week."

"Plumbing? I had it inspected last week. Everything checked out."

"Must be a new issue. They just told me. Maybe stay in the city this weekend?"

"Fine." I hung up.

Twenty minutes later, I drove out there myself.

From half a block away I could see four or five cars parked at the gate.

One of them was a company sedan.

Justin had the keys.

I pulled over and walked up to the front door.

It was cracked open.

Music and laughter spilled out of the living room.

I pushed it open and walked in.

The white leather couch was streaked with red wine.

The coffee table was buried under takeout boxes, beer cans, and cigarette packs.

The floor was covered in shoe prints and crumbs.

The Persian rug I'd shipped over from Italy had eight holes punched through it from stilettos.

Ten or twelve people were sprawled around the living room. Men and women. Drinking, playing some hand game.

Right in the middle of the main sofa sat Vivienne.

Two girls next to her were eating it up.

"Viv, your boyfriend is so generous. This place has to be worth twenty million, easy."

"Way more than that." Vivienne swirled her wine glass. "This is the smallest one Justin owns. He's got a penthouse downtown and a riverside loft too."

"Oh my god, Viv, you got so lucky."

"Please. I have great taste."

I stood there in the doorway. Didn't say a word.

Vivienne caught me in her peripheral vision. Her glass stopped mid-swirl.

Then she recognized me.

She got up and walked over with a look of pure disgust. "What are you doing here? Again?"

"You first," I said. "How did you get in?"

She put her hands on her hips. "This is my boyfriend's house. I used his keys. Is that a problem?"

"How about you tell me how some random woman walked herself in here?"

Her friends got up too, looking me over.

A girl with bleached hair sneered. "Viv, is this the freeloader you were talking about? She's back?"

"God knows why." Vivienne folded her arms. "Mooched a meal off my boyfriend at the restaurant, got kicked out. Now she's trying to mooch a house."

"Listen, lady. Stay away from my boyfriend. Don't think a few years on him gives you any leverage. He's not going to fall for some old trick."

Footsteps on the stairs.

Justin came jogging down with two bags of takeout. "Viv, your truffle fries—"

He saw me. His knees buckled. The bags hit the floor.

"Ms... Ms. Sinclair?"

Vivienne turned. "Why are you calling her that? Justin, you're the boss, she works for you. Why would you call her ma'am?"

Justin's mouth was open. Nothing came out.

I looked at him. Kept my voice flat.

"Justin. You have thirty seconds. Get everyone out of my house."

"Your house?"

Vivienne was the first one out of the gate.

"What did you just say? This is Justin's house. I've seen the deed on his phone!"

Justin grabbed her arm and yanked. "Viv, let's just go. Please."

She shook him off and got in my face, finger jabbing at me.

"What is your problem, lady? Wasn't getting kicked out of the restaurant embarrassing enough? Now you're here trying to grab his house?"

"Does your monthly paycheck even cover a floor tile in this place? And you've got the nerve to call it yours?"

The blonde chimed in. "Yeah, look in a mirror. You look broke."

I pulled out my phone to make a call.

Vivienne knocked it out of my hand.

The phone bounced twice on the floor.

"Who you calling? Your broke friends?"

A guy in a Hawaiian shirt clicked his tongue. "Lady, read the room. His girlfriend's right here. What's a hired hand like you doing in our way?"

I bent down to pick up my phone.

Vivienne's eyes locked on my neck.

The collar of my shirt had shifted. A thin silver chain was showing, and on the end of it was a small silver locket the size of my thumb.

A single letter was engraved into it. A "Y."

It was my mother's.

My mother was a silversmith. She never made anything expensive in her whole life. This one piece, she spent three months on. Engraved every line by hand.

The night she finished, she pressed it into my palm.

"Sweetheart. I don't have much to give you. But I made this for you. Wear it for me. So I know you're with me."

Those were the last words she ever said to me.

She was gone by morning.

For twenty-three years, that locket had never come off my neck.

"Nice piece," Vivienne said. Her eyes hadn't left it. "Where'd you get it? Don't tell me you mooched it off my boyfriend too."

I closed my hand around the chain. "Not your business."

"Let me see."

I stepped back. "Don't touch it."

"The more you tell me not to, the more I want to."

Her face changed. She flicked her eyes at two of the guys behind her.

They closed in from both sides and pinned my arms.

Vivienne stepped up, grabbed the chain, and yanked.

It snapped.

The locket landed in her palm.

I tried to pull free. "Give it back."

She held it up. Squinted. Snorted.

"This? I thought it'd be worth something. It's just a trinket."

"Give it back."

"Sure."

She opened her hand.

The locket slipped between her fingers.

It hit the marble with a thin metallic sound.

She stepped on it. Once. Then twisted her heel, hard.

The case buckled. The hinge gave. The front panel split. The Y my mother had engraved cracked through the center.

I dropped to my knees. Scooped up the pieces. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Mom.

You spent three months on it.

You said you'd feel better if I wore it.

I wore it for twenty-three years.

"Are you serious right now?" Vivienne tilted her head. "What was that worth, ten bucks? Any bracelet Justin buys me is worth a hundred times that."

I stood up.

I didn't cry.

I picked up each piece and put them in my pocket. Then I turned to face her.

"Do you know what that was?"

"A trinket—"

"That was my mother's life."

I didn't raise my voice. The people around her went quiet for a second.

Just a second.

The blonde laughed. "Your mother's life? Some piece of street junk is her life?"

"That's what poor people do. Take some piece of garbage and slap a sob story on it."

"Anyway, get out. You're making me sick."

Vivienne rolled her eyes and turned, throwing an arm around her friend's shoulders to head back to the couch.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

I pulled her around and slapped her across the face.

The sound rang off the walls.

The room went silent.

Vivienne held her cheek. "You hit me?"

She lunged. Her nails caught my forearm and dragged. Blood beaded up in three lines.

Her friends piled on. Someone shoved me. Someone kicked at my legs.

I went down. A heel came down on the back of my hand. Someone had a fistful of my hair.

Vivienne ground her shoe into my fingers. Her teeth were clenched.

"Apologize. On your knees. Apologize to me."

Justin was standing right there. His lips kept twitching. He didn't move.

I was facedown on the floor. The taste of iron in my mouth. My fingers were still wrapped around the pieces in my pocket.

Outside, car doors started slamming.

One after another. Black sedans pulling up to the gate.

A dozen people in business suits filed in.

The man in front was Wesley Sharpe, head of legal at Sinclair Group.

He took in the scene. His eyes landed on me for two beats.

Then he spoke, not loud, but every word distinct.

"Who touched Ms. Sinclair?"