I had barely sat down at the party when my husband’s new assistant sla.pped me across the face and hissed, “You have no manners!”

The decryption of the burner phone took less time than expected. By Friday afternoon, Rachel walked into my office with a single sheet of paper. Her face was grim.

"We cracked the IP routing," she said, sliding the paper across my desk. "The encrypted messages were sent from a server registered to a private office in downtown Boston. The building is owned by Vance Holdings."

I stared at the name. "Arthur Vance?"

"Not Arthur," Rachel said. "His son. Julian Vance."

The pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place with terrifying clarity.

Julian Vance was thirty-eight, a brilliant, ruthless hedge fund manager who had spent years trying to step out of his father’s shadow. Unlike Arthur, who was conservative and valued reputation, Julian was a disruptor. He didn't care about rules, and he certainly didn't care about the Hayes family legacy.

"Julian wanted Whitaker Enterprises," I realized. "He knew his father would never agree to a hostile takeover of a company associated with my family. So he used Daniel. He set up Aegis Holdings, funded it with the money Daniel stole from my foundation, and used Daniel as a puppet to buy up the shares."

"And when Daniel failed to get reinstated at the board meeting, Julian didn't stop," Rachel added. "He kept buying. He’s currently sitting on nine point eight percent of the shares. He only needs another zero point two percent to demand a seat on the board and initiate a proxy war."

"He’s going to use the stolen foundation money to force us out," I said, a wave of cold anger washing over me. "Daniel was just the distraction. Julian is the real threat."

"What’s our move?" Rachel asked. "If we expose Julian publically, we risk exposing the foundation’s security breach. It could trigger a massive investigation that would freeze our assets."

"No public exposure," I said, my voice hardening. "We handle this the way Julian handles his business. In the dark."

I picked up my desk phone and dialed a number I had memorized years ago.

"Julian Vance’s office," a polite secretary answered.

"This is Eleanor Hayes," I said. "Tell Julian I am outside his office. He has five minutes to let me in, or I will hand the federal grand jury the IP routing logs and Clara's signed confession."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a long pause.

"Mr. Vance will see you immediately, Ms. Hayes," the secretary said, her voice shaking.

I hung up, grabbed my coat, and looked at Rachel. "Stay here. Keep the tech team on standby. If I am not back in two hours, release the documents to the SEC."