CHAPTER 12

ANNA POV

“We aren't going to that gala,” Peter says, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and cutting through the quiet living room of his apartment.

It's three in the morning. He sits behind his glass desk, papers and digital tablets spreading around him like a battle plan. He’s been digging into Victor Kane for six hours straight, his face pale and drained under the dim desk lamp. On the corner of his desk lies an old framed photo of him at seven years old—standing stiffly beside a smiling woman right before his mother disappeared from his life forever.

“Victor knows something about my mother,” I say, stepping closer to his desk and folding my arms over my chest. “About why she really died five years ago.”

“Your mother died in a car crash on Route 9,” Peter says, not even looking up from his laptop screen. “It’s a police record.”

“So did Princess Diana,” I shoot back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Doesn’t mean it was an accident.”

Peter slams his laptop shut with a sudden, sharp crack that vibrates across the glass top.

He stands up, moving around the desk in three fast strides until he's standing directly in front of me. He reaches out, grabbing both of my shoulders in a tight, heavy grip that pins me to the spot.

“Victor doesn't want to help you, Anna,” Peter growls down at me, his grey eyes turning dark and stormy. “He collects vulnerable heirs, uses them to cripple their parents, and discards them when the company tanks. He wants to use you to hurt Richard. You’re just a chess piece to him.”

“Then why do you care if I get sacrificed?” I demand, staring straight up into his tense face.

Silence drops like lead between us.

Peter’s chest rises and falls sharply. He freezes, his fingers twitching against my shoulders before he abruptly lets go, stepping back two full paces as if my skin burned him.

“Because you’re my partner in this,” Peter says, his voice dropping into an icy, unreadable monotone. “Nothing more.”

PETER POV

“I said change,” I say, my voice tightening as Anna steps out of the guest room. “You look like bait.”

She stands in the hallway wearing a sleeveless red floor-length silk dress. The shade is aggressive, vibrant, and dangerous, clinging to every curve of her waist and highlighting the soft curve of her throat.

My breath hitches in my chest. I literally forget to draw air into my lungs for three full seconds, my pulse slamming against my throat as I take in the sight of her. I force my jaw to harden, locking my hands into tight fists inside my tuxedo pockets.

“Good,” Anna says, smoothing the silk over her hips with a cold, confident smirk. “That’s the point.”

“Richard explicitly forbade us from attending tonight,” I say, stepping toward the front door to hide the sudden, dark tension tightening through my lower stomach. “He called my private line twenty minutes ago threatened to cut your trust off early.”

“And Mary called my phone ten minutes ago insisting we go for family optics,” Anna counters, sliding a silver cuff onto her wrist. “They’re terrified, Peter. If both of our parents are giving conflicting orders, it means Victor Kane has something that can destroy them both.”

She’s right. The contradiction in their orders exposes their panic.

We take the private elevator down to the garage and drive to the penthouse tower in complete silence.

The elevator doors at Kane Tower open directly into a sprawling penthouse lined with black marble floors and dark, predatory abstract art. High-society guests move through the hall in tailored velvet and diamonds, but the air feels heavy, like a trap waiting to spring.

Victor Kane steps out from the VIP lounge, holding a crystal glass of scotch. He walks straight toward Anna, stepping right into her personal space.

“Anna,” Victor purrs, taking her hand and raising her knuckles to his lips. He presses his mouth to her skin, holding her hand entirely too long, his thumb stroking the soft side of her wrist. “You look absolute breathtaking tonight.”

A white-hot spike of pure rage hits my chest so fast my teeth click together.

I step forward, sliding my shoulder directly into Victor’s line of sight and grabbing his forearm to pull his hand away from her.

“Get your hands off my sister,” I growl, my voice dropping into a low, lethal register.

The word sister feels poisonous on my tongue, sounding less like a familial title and more like a direct declaration of war.

Victor doesn't flinch. He smiles smoothly, taking a sip of his drink as his eyes lock onto mine.

“Stepbrother, technically,” Victor corrects, his tone light and amused. “Excuse us for a moment, Anna. I need a quick word with your partner.”

Before Anna can protest, Victor places a hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the secluded glass balcony overlooking the Manhattan lights. I pull my shoulder out of his reach the second we step outside into the night air.

“Say what you came to say, Kane,” I say, staring at him with total disgust.

“You have your mother’s stubborn jaw, Peter,” Victor says, pulling a small silver case from his tuxedo pocket. “I knew her, you know. Before Richard stole her. Before he stole you.”

“My father didn't steal anyone,” I state coldly.

“Didn't he?” Victor laughs softly, pulling a faded photograph from the case and sliding it into my hands. “Take a look.”

I look down at the glossy paper under the balcony lights.

It’s an original photograph of my mother sitting in a wheelchair outside St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a blue blanket. She’s smiling down at the infant—at me.

My eyes drift to the bottom right corner of the photograph. The red digital timestamp stamped into the photo paper reads: November 14th.

My mind instantly runs the calculations. My official birth certificate filed with the city of New York states my birthday is August 12th.

Three months later.

The math is completely wrong. It's impossible. Either my legal records are forged and I’m older than I’ve been told my entire life—or Richard Voss is not my real father.

My fingers shake as I stare at the stamped numbers, my stomach dropping into a cold, endless void.

Victor steps closer, leaning over my shoulder with a sharp, victorious smile.

“Come back alone tomorrow night, boy,” Victor whispers against my ear. “We’ll discuss your real heritage.”