The first sign that something is wrong comes at 3:17 AM, when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I'm instantly awake—years of being a single mother and business owner have trained me to respond to middle-of-the-night calls with immediate clarity.

"Hello?" I answer quietly, slipping from bed and moving to the window so my voice won't carry.


"It's Marcus. We have a situation." His tone is tense, controlled. "Nathaniel Pierce is on his way back from Singapore. He left suddenly, cutting his trip short."

I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. "Did he find something?"

"We think so. Our contact at the records office reports that he was particularly interested in immigration documents from five years ago. Specifically, entries from women traveling alone with medical visas."


My stomach drops. When I fled New York, pregnant and desperate, I'd used a medical visa to enter Singapore—a detail I thought untraceable after all this time.

"What exactly did he get?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.


"We're not certain," Marcus admits. "But he was seen making copies of several files, and he left looking... satisfied."

"When does he land in New York?"

"That's the other thing," Marcus says grimly. "He's not coming to New York. He's flying to Chicago first, where Charles Morgan is attending a banking conference."

The implications are clear—Nathaniel is taking whatever he found directly to my father, bypassing Cassandra and Diana. This is escalating faster than I anticipated.

"I need to move up our timeline," I decide. "How quickly can we prepare the offer for the second phase of the Morgan Group acquisition?"

"The paperwork is ready," Marcus confirms. "But Olivia, if Nathaniel has found proof connecting you to Olivia Morgan—"

"Then we need to act before he can use it," I interrupt. "Send the offer to the Morgan Group board first thing in the morning. And book me on a flight to Chicago. I need to intercept Charles before Nathaniel reaches him."

After ending the call, I stand at the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline as I consider my options. The carefully orchestrated revenge plan I've been executing is suddenly accelerating beyond my control. I need to adapt, to get ahead of whatever Nathaniel discovered in Singapore.

"Olivia?"

Ethan's voice startles me. I turn to find him standing in the doorway of my suite, hair tousled from sleep, wearing only pajama bottoms. The sight of his bare chest—all defined muscle and warm skin—momentarily distracts me from the crisis at hand.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, concern evident in his voice. "I heard you talking."

"Just a business call," I reply, suddenly conscious of my own appearance in a silk nightgown that reveals more than it conceals. "Singapore office. Time difference."

Ethan steps further into the room, unconvinced. "At three in the morning? Must be serious."

"Nothing I can't handle," I assure him, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive gesture that doesn't escape his notice.

"You don't have to handle everything alone, you know," he says softly, moving closer. "That's part of what marriage is supposed to be—sharing burdens."

The genuine concern in his voice makes this harder. Ethan wants to help, to be a true partner, but he can't know what I'm really dealing with—not yet, maybe not ever if Nathaniel exposes my identity before I'm ready.

"It's complicated," I say, falling back on my standard deflection.

"Life usually is," Ethan replies, now standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "But some complications are worth navigating together."

His proximity is distracting, his bare chest at eye level reminding me that beneath our business arrangement and co-parenting partnership, there's an undeniable physical attraction that's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

"I need to go to Chicago tomorrow," I say, changing the subject. "Business meeting that can't wait."

Ethan's eyebrows rise slightly. "Chicago? That's sudden."

"A potential investor for Ascendant Group," I lie smoothly. "The opportunity just came up."

He studies me for a moment, clearly sensing there's more to the story but respecting my boundaries enough not to push. "How long will you be gone?"

"Just overnight," I reply. "I'll be back tomorrow evening."

"I'll take Leo to school then," Ethan offers. "And pick him up. We'll have a father-son evening while you're away."

The casual way he steps into the parental role, no questions asked, no complaints about the sudden change in plans, touches me more deeply than it should. This is what I wanted for Leo—a father who's fully present, fully committed. Yet it complicates my plans in ways I never anticipated.

"Thank you," I say softly. "He'll like that."

Ethan reaches out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, the simple touch sending electricity through my body. "You should try to get some sleep," he murmurs. "Even business powerhouses need rest."

His hand lingers at my cheek, his blue eyes dark with an emotion that makes my breath catch. We're standing too close, the air between us charged with possibility. For a moment, I think he might kiss me—and worse, I realize I want him to.

"Goodnight, Ethan," I say, taking a deliberate step back before I do something foolish.

He lets his hand fall, respecting my withdrawal though disappointment flickers briefly in his eyes. "Goodnight, Olivia. Safe travels tomorrow."

After he leaves, closing the door softly behind him, I press my fingers to the spot where his touch still burns on my skin. This growing attraction, these deepening feelings—they're a liability I can't afford right now, not when everything I've worked for is suddenly at risk.

I need to focus on the immediate threat: Nathaniel Pierce and whatever he discovered in Singapore. Everything else—including my complicated feelings for Ethan Knight—will have to wait.

---

The Peninsula Chicago exudes old-world luxury, its lobby a symphony of marble and crystal that speaks to generations of wealth and power. It's exactly the kind of place where banking conferences are held and deals worth billions are negotiated over single malt scotch.

I spot my father immediately, seated in a corner of the lobby bar, reviewing documents while nursing what appears to be a whiskey neat. He looks older than he did at the board meeting last week—more lines around his eyes, a certain weariness in his posture that wasn't evident in the boardroom where he maintains his powerful facade.

For a moment, I simply watch him, this man who raised me, who taught me everything I know about business, who then believed the worst about me without question when Cassandra orchestrated my downfall. The complicated mix of love and betrayal I feel toward him has only intensified since my return to New York.

Taking a deep breath, I approach his table with the confident stride of Olivia Knight, business executive, not the hesitant step of a daughter seeking reconciliation.

"Mr. Morgan," I greet him. "What a pleasant surprise."

He looks up, genuine surprise registering on his face. "Mrs. Knight. I didn't expect to see you in Chicago."

"Banking conference," I explain smoothly. "Ascendant Group is always looking for new financial partnerships. May I join you?"

"Of course," he gestures to the empty chair across from him. "Though I must admit, I'm curious about the timing of your appearance. I only arrived this morning myself."

His suspicion is subtle but present—he's wondering if my presence is coincidental or calculated. He's right to be suspicious, of course, though not for the reasons he imagines.

"I heard you were attending," I admit, signaling a waiter for a drink. "And thought it might be a good opportunity to discuss the next phase of our business relationship."

"Next phase?" My father's eyebrows rise slightly. "The ink is barely dry on the Asian division acquisition."

"I believe in planning ahead," I reply as the waiter delivers my martini. "Ascendant Group is interested in expanding our partnership with Morgan Group. Specifically, we'd like to acquire a minority stake in your North American operations."

The proposal is bold—more aggressive than what we had planned to offer next week. But with Nathaniel potentially bringing damaging information about my identity, I need to accelerate my timeline.

My father studies me over the rim of his glass. "That's... unexpected. Our North American division isn't on the market."

"Everything is on the market for the right price," I counter. "And Ascendant Group is prepared to make a very generous offer."

"Why?" he asks directly. "First our Asian division, now North America. What's your particular interest in Morgan Group, Mrs. Knight?"

The question is loaded, his gaze shrewd as he awaits my answer. This is the businessman who built Morgan Group from a modest family company into a global enterprise—perceptive, strategic, not easily misled.

"Investment potential," I reply smoothly. "Morgan Group has solid fundamentals but has underperformed in recent years due to... management issues." A subtle dig at Cassandra's leadership that doesn't go unnoticed. "With the right partner and fresh capital, the company could return to its former prominence."

"And you believe Ascendant Group is that partner?" he asks skeptically.

"I do," I confirm. "Our acquisition of the Asian division is already showing positive results. Imagine what we could accomplish with a broader collaboration."

My father takes another sip of his whiskey, considering. "You're very confident for someone who appeared on the business scene relatively recently, Mrs. Knight."

"I believe in recognizing opportunity and acting decisively," I reply. "A trait I imagine you appreciate, given your own business history."

Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit. Or maybe just surprise at my knowledge of his career trajectory.

"You've done your research," he observes.

"Always," I agree. "I admire your business acumen, Mr. Morgan. The way you built Morgan Group from the foundation your father left you, expanding into new markets when others were hesitant. It's impressive."

The praise isn't just strategic flattery—it's genuine. Whatever his personal failings as a father, Charles Morgan's business achievements are undeniable. And they're achievements I learned from, shaped by, hoped to build upon before Cassandra's betrayal derailed my path.

"Thank you," he says, seeming genuinely touched by the compliment. "It wasn't always easy. There were sacrifices."

"There always are," I reply softly, thinking of my own sacrifices these past five years—raising Leo alone, building Ascendant Group from nothing, living under a partially fabricated identity.

A comfortable silence falls between us, broken when my father signals for another round of drinks. "So, this minority stake you're proposing—what percentage are we talking about?"

"Twenty-five percent initially," I reply, "with an option to increase to forty-nine percent over three years, contingent on performance metrics we would establish together."

"That's substantial," he observes. "The board would need to approve."

"Of course," I agree. "But as chairman, your recommendation carries significant weight."

"And what would Morgan Group gain from this arrangement, beyond capital infusion?"

"Strategic partnership with a company that's demonstrating innovation in markets where Morgan Group has struggled," I explain. "Access to Ascendant Group's technology platform, which has outperformed industry standards by 17% in the past year. And..." I pause for effect, "protection from potential hostile takeover attempts."

My father's eyes sharpen. "What do you know about potential takeovers?"

"Only rumors," I say carefully. "But in this economic climate, companies with undervalued assets and cash flow challenges are prime targets. Morgan Group fits that profile."

This isn't manipulation—it's truth. My intelligence network has identified at least two private equity firms circling Morgan Group, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Firms that would dismantle the company my father built, selling off its parts for quick profit with no regard for its legacy or employees.

"I'll need to see a formal proposal," my father says after a thoughtful pause. "Something I can take to the board."

"Of course," I reply, trying not to show my satisfaction at this small victory. "I can have it delivered to your office by Monday."

"Make it Tuesday," he suggests. "I'd like to review it personally before sharing with the board."

We clink glasses on this agreement, and for a moment, I'm transported back to earlier days—sitting across from my father in his study as he taught me about business negotiations, the subtle art of knowing when to press and when to concede. Before Cassandra entered our lives, before my mother's death, when I was still his heir apparent and trusted protégée.

The memory must show on my face, because my father tilts his head slightly, studying me with renewed interest. "You know, there's something familiar about you, Mrs. Knight. Have we met before the acquisition discussions?"

My pulse quickens, but I maintain my composed expression. "I don't believe so. Though I've followed your career for many years."

"Hmm," he murmurs, unconvinced. "Perhaps you remind me of someone."

Before I can respond, a commotion at the lobby entrance draws our attention. Nathaniel Pierce has arrived, scanning the bar area with purpose. When his gaze lands on our table, his expression shifts from determination to surprise, then quickly to suspicion.