Elara's POV
My mother's hospital room smells like antiseptic and failure.
I've been sitting in this uncomfortable plastic chair for two days, watching her chest rise and fall under the thin blanket. They have her so sedated she barely knows her own name. The doctor said it was necessary—her heart couldn't handle the stress.
My heart is breaking too, but nobody's offering me pills to make it stop.
"Miss Sinclair?"
I look up to find Martin Reeves standing in the doorway. Dad's lawyer. My lawyer now, I guess. He's wearing an expensive suit that probably costs more than most people make in a month, but his face looks tired. Old.
"Can we talk?" he asks.
I glance at my mother. She hasn't moved in hours.
"Yeah. Okay."
We move to the hallway. Martin guides me to a small waiting area that's empty except for us. He sits down heavily, like his bones hurt. I stay standing. I've been sitting for two days and I feel like I might explode if I sit another second.
"Tell me," I say. "How bad is it?"
Martin opens his briefcase and pulls out a folder. "Your father is being charged with embezzlement of fifty million dollars from various client accounts over a period of seven years."
The number hits me like a fist. "Fifty million?"
"The evidence is... extensive. Bank transfers, forged documents, offshore accounts in shell company names. The FBI has been building this case for eighteen months."
Eighteen months. A year and a half of my father's life that I knew nothing about. A year and a half of investigators watching our family, documenting our crimes.
Except I didn't commit any crimes.
"He says he's innocent," I whisper.
Martin's silence is louder than any answer.
"He's going to prison, isn't he?"
"If convicted, he's facing twenty years minimum. Possibly more." Martin's voice is gentle, but the words still cut. "Elara, I need you to understand something. This isn't a case we can fight and win. The best we can hope for is a plea deal that reduces his sentence."
Twenty years. My father will be seventy-eight when he gets out. An old man. Broken.
"What about bail?"
"Denied. The judge considers him a flight risk." Martin pauses. "There's more."
Of course there's more. Because the universe isn't done destroying us yet.
"All family assets have been frozen pending the investigation. The penthouse, the cars, the vacation home in the Hamptons, your mother's jewelry—everything. You can't access your bank accounts. Your credit cards have been cancelled."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Any money or property that could potentially be linked to your father's fraud is now under government control. That includes everything in your name, since you're a dependent."
"But I didn't do anything! I didn't even know—"
"I believe you. But legally, it doesn't matter. The money used to buy your car, pay for your apartment, fund your accounts—it's all considered proceeds from illegal activity until proven otherwise."
The room tilts sideways. I grab the back of a chair to steady myself.
"So I have nothing? We have nothing?"
"I'm working on getting you access to basic living expenses, but it will take time. Weeks, maybe months. For now..." Martin looks genuinely pained. "Do you have somewhere to stay? Someone who can help?"
I think of my friends. The girls I had brunch with every Sunday. The guys I dated who always seemed impressed by my last name and my father's connections.
I've been calling them for two days.
Nobody answers.
Yesterday, I saw Chelsea—my supposed best friend since boarding school—post photos from some party in the Hamptons. She was tagged in dozens of pictures, her phone clearly working fine. Just not for my calls.
"I'll figure something out," I say, because what else can I say?
Martin hands me the folder. "This is everything I can share with you right now. Evidence summaries, charges, timeline. I thought you should know what we're facing."
I take it with numb fingers. The folder is thick. Heavy.
"How much will it cost to defend him?"
"My retainer alone is two hundred thousand dollars. The trial could cost millions."
Money we don't have. Money we can't access. Money that might not even be real—might just be stolen from other people's lives.
"There is... one thing," Martin says slowly. "Something unusual."
I look up at him. "What?"
"Someone has made an offer to help with your family's legal fees. All of them. Your father's defense, your mother's medical bills, living expenses for both of you."
Hope flares in my chest like a match in the dark. "Who? Why would anyone—"
"I don't know why. The offer came through a law firm representing an anonymous client. But there are conditions."
Of course there are conditions. Nothing is free. I learned that two days ago when my perfect life exploded.
"What kind of conditions?"
Martin pulls out another document. This one is bound, official-looking. "The benefactor wants to meet with you. Privately. To discuss the terms of the arrangement."
"That's it? Just a meeting?"
"That's all the message said. If you agree to meet, they'll provide further details." Martin hesitates. "Elara, I have to advise you to be extremely careful. We don't know who this person is or what they really want. This could be—"
"A trap?" I laugh, but it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "A scam? What do I have left to steal, Martin? My pajamas?"
"Your safety. Your freedom. Your future."
I think about my father in a cell somewhere, probably wearing an orange jumpsuit. My mother sedated in a hospital bed because reality broke her. My friends who abandoned me the second things got hard.
"When?" I ask.
"I'm sorry?"
"When do they want to meet?"
Martin's jaw tightens. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. There's an address." He hands me a business card. "Again, I strongly advise—"
"I'll go."
"Elara—"
"I don't have a choice!" The words explode out of me. "Do you see another option? Because I've been sitting in this hospital for two days trying to figure out how to pay for my mother's medication, how to keep a roof over our heads, how to save my father from spending the rest of his life in prison, and I've come up with exactly nothing!"
Martin stands slowly. "I understand. I do. Just... be smart. If anything feels wrong, leave immediately. And call me after, please."
He leaves me alone with the business card.
I turn it over in my fingers. Heavy stock, expensive. No name, just an address in Manhattan and a time.
8:00 PM.
Six hours from now.
My phone buzzes. Another unknown number. I almost don't answer, but something makes me swipe.
"Elara Sinclair?" A woman's voice, professional and cold.
"Yes?"
"This is Rebecca Chen from New York First Bank. I'm calling about your student loan payment. It's fourteen days past due. When can we expect—"
I hang up.
The phone buzzes again immediately. Different number.
I turn it off and slip it in my pocket next to the mysterious business card.
Through the waiting room window, I can see the city stretching out below. Millions of people living their normal lives. Going to work, meeting friends, worrying about normal things.
Two days ago, I was one of them.
Now I'm standing in a hospital with nothing but the clothes I'm wearing and a meeting invitation from a stranger who might be my only chance at survival.
I pull out the card again and read the address.
Moretti Tower.
The name means nothing to me, but something about it makes my skin prickle.
I check the time: 2:47 PM.
In five hours and thirteen minutes, I'll walk into that building and meet whoever wants to help us.
And somehow, I know that whatever happens tonight will change everything.
Again.