Marian Cole’s office overlooked the Chicago River.

She was sixty-three, small, elegantly dressed, with short silver hair and the kind of eyes that seemed to see more than you intended to show.

When I walked into her office, she stood.

For a second, all professionalism vanished from her face.

“Oh,” she whispered.

She looked at me as though she had seen a ghost.

“Rebecca.”

“No.”

Her eyes filled.

“I know.”

She pressed a hand briefly to her chest.

“I’m sorry. You look like her.”

My father entered behind me.

Marian’s expression changed.

“Michael.”

“Marian.”

Twenty years of history occupied one word from each of them.

Ethan waited outside.

That had been my choice.

This conversation belonged first to us.

I remained standing.

“Did you send my father the photograph?”

Marian looked at me.

“Yes.”

No excuse.

No delay.

“Did you text Chase Whitaker?”

“No.”

I frowned.

“Then who did?”

“I believe one of my junior consultants did.”

“You believe?”

“I gave instructions that should never have been given.”

My anger sharpened.

“What instructions?”

Marian sat.

“I told my team we needed evidence of how Preston behaved when senior management was absent.”

“So they set him up.”

“They were supposed to observe.”

“That is not what happened.”

“No.”

She looked genuinely ashamed.

“One consultant knew Chase socially. He thought provoking Preston would demonstrate the problem more clearly.”

“And me?”

Marian closed her eyes briefly.

“I recognized you when you entered the hotel.”

“From where?”

“Your mother’s photographs.”

“You haven’t seen me since I was what, ten?”

“Twelve.”

I stared.

“I don’t remember you.”

“I know.”

Something in her voice made my anger falter for half a second.

Then I remembered the wine.

“You saw me walk in.”

“Yes.”

“You knew who I was.”

“Yes.”

“And when you realized your consultant was planning to use me?”

“I stopped him.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I tried.”

“How?”

“I told him to leave you out of it.”

“But Chase still got the message.”

“Yes.”

She looked down.

“By the time I discovered that, Preston had already approached you.”

“So you called my father.”

“I sent the photograph.”

“Why not walk into the ballroom yourself?”

That question stopped her.

I leaned forward.

“You knew I was being used. You knew my father. You knew my mother. But you still decided someone more powerful needed to come handle it.”

Marian’s face changed.

Michael looked at me.

I could almost feel the irony settling over all three of us.

Marian had spent years criticizing my father for deciding the world was too dangerous for me.

Then, when danger appeared, she had done exactly what he would do.

“I was wrong,” she said.

Simple.

Uncomfortable.

Real.

“I thought Michael could stop things quickly.”

“He did.”

“I know.”

“And suddenly everybody respected me.”

She nodded.

“I see what you mean.”

“No. I don’t think you do.”

I sat across from her.

“The entire point of your review was supposedly that employees should be treated with dignity whether powerful people are watching.”

“Yes.”

“Then the moment I became involved, you used my father’s power.”

Marian absorbed that.

“You’re right.”

Again, no defense.

My anger had nowhere dramatic to go.

That was probably good.

“Who texted Chase?”

“Daniel Reeves. Twenty-eight. Junior associate.”

“Does Harrison know?”

“Yes.”

“What happens to Daniel?”

“He has been removed from the review pending investigation.”

“Don’t fire him because I’m Michael Carter’s daughter.”

Marian almost smiled sadly.

“You really are Rebecca’s child.”

“I’m also mine.”

Her expression softened.

“Yes.”

“You should probably learn that first.”

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She nodded.

Fairly.