At my only son’s wedding, his bride slapped my 64-year-old wife so hard her glasses flew across the ballroom, then screamed, “Get out, old woman. Nobody wants you here.” My son stood three feet away and stared at his shoes while 400 guests watched. Her wealthy parents looked almost amused. I picked up my wife’s glasses, called the venue manager, and gave one instruction. What the bride didn’t know was who actually owned the estate...

Jerry Wallace stood in the manor’s private study, bathed in the amber glow of the hearth. Kathy sat on the velvet sofa, her hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea, her eyes calm yet guarded as Shelby sat trembling on an antique wooden chair across the room, wrapped in a wool blanket provided by the staff.

Caleb stood by the mahogany door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"You have five minutes, Shelby," Jerry said, his voice quiet, devoid of hatred, but as cold as glacial ice. "Speak the truth. Nothing more, nothing less."

Shelby kept her head bowed, unable to meet Kathy’s eyes. The shame radiating from her was suffocating. "My mother divorced my father because he was sloppy," Shelby whispered, her voice hoarse. "When Richard’s company went into receivership after what happened at... at the wedding... my mother saw it as an opportunity. She bought up Richard’s debt notes for pennies on the dollar through Aegis Sovereign."

"And what does she want?" Kathy asked softly.

Shelby flinched at the sound of Kathy’s voice. She buried her face in her trembling hands. "She wants Lakeview Manor. She wants Wallace Maritime crushed until you are forced into bankruptcy, and she wants to buy this estate out of foreclosure. She told me... she told me that the only way she would pay for top-tier defense counsel to keep me out of prison for the logistics fraud is if I placed a keycard duplicator inside Caleb’s office tonight."

From her soaked pocket, Shelby pulled a small, black electronic skimming device and placed it on the polished mahogany table with trembling fingers.

"She wanted the master encryption keys to the automated shipping routing system," Shelby wept. "She said if Wallace Maritime suffers a major catastrophic navigational failure in the St. Lawrence Seaway, the federal government will permanently revoke your commercial operating charter."

Jerry walked over to the desk, picked up the skimming device, and inspected it under the lamp. "A military-grade interceptor. Your mother has expensive friends."

"She’s married to Marcus Sterling," Shelby whispered.

The study fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Even Frank Morrison, who had just entered the room, stopped in his tracks.

Marcus Sterling was one of the most ruthless private equity magnates in North America—a man who had hollowed out dozens of legacy Canadian industrial firms, strip-mining pensions and leaving thousands unemployed while he parked his billions in Caribbean trusts.

"So," Jerry said, a faint, cold smile finally appearing on his weathered face. "Sterling thinks he’s hunting an old sheep."

Jerry looked at his son, then at Kathy, and finally at Shelby.