Only three people had ever known the full access procedure.
My father.
Daniel.
And me.
At least, that was what I had believed.
“We need to go,” I said.
Daniel did not ask questions.
Within minutes, the gala became someone else’s problem. My assistant handled the guests. Security contained the press gathering outside. Madison disappeared into a side room with her parents, though not before looking at me once with an expression I could not read.
Regret, perhaps.
Or warning.
The car ride to the Whitmore estate was silent.
Rain had begun to fall, silver and sharp against the windows. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and black, all those towers my father had helped build rising like witnesses in the night.
Daniel sat beside me, his phone glowing in his hand.
“I’m checking the vault logs,” he said.
“And?”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “There was an access record three nights ago.”
My stomach tightened. “That’s impossible.”
“It used your code.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Neither of us spoke.
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