My ex-husband mocked me at my cousin’s wedding, bragging that leaving me was his best decision—until a little girl screamed “Mommy!” and a billionaire walked toward us.

The night was far from over.

Back at the Rhodes Capital tower, the legal team was working under blinding halogen lights. Coffee was flowing, printers were humming, and digital exhibits were being stamped with federal court docket numbers.

I sat in Julian’s private office, reviewing the original 1954 Mercer Maritime Charter under a high-powered magnifying lamp.

Something had been bothering me ever since we left the Somerset Club.

Victor had been terrified when we confronted him with the arms-smuggling dossier, but there was an undercurrent of something else in his reaction—a reckless, desperate fury that didn't match a man who was merely greedy.

And then there was Elena.

The woman in the black dress had looked terrified not when Julian mentioned the feds, but when Julian mentioned *financial ruin*.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Julian entered carrying two cups of chamomile tea, his jacket discarded, his tie loosened. He set a cup in front of me and leaned down, resting his chin on my shoulder, looking at the yellowed deed on the desk.

“What are you looking for, Evie?” he murmured gently.

“The 1954 charter,” I said, tracing the faded ink of the notary seal. “Victor’s entire legal strategy hinges on paragraph twelve—the clause stating that if Marcus attempted to alienate the property, title reverts automatically to the eldest living male heir.”

“Right. And since Victor is alive, Sullivan & Cross is arguing the reversion already took place.”

“Look at the wording of paragraph thirteen, Julian,” I said, sliding the magnifying glass over the page.

Julian leaned closer, his eyes following my finger.

*“Provided, however, that no heir shall claim reversionary rights who has engaged in maritime barratry, abandonment of vessel, or who has been declared civilly dead by a court of competent admiralty jurisdiction without executing a formal Petition of Resuscitation within seven calendar years of said declaration.”*

Julian stopped. He looked at me, a sharp spark of brilliant recognition in his dark eyes.

“A Petition of Resuscitation,” Julian breathed.

“Under ancient Massachusetts colonial maritime law—which governs all federal patent deeds prior to 1960—a seaman or merchant declared dead at sea has exactly seven years to appear before an admiralty magistrate in the Port of Boston and file a formal Petition of Resuscitation to reclaim his real property,” I explained, the excitement racing through my veins. “Victor was declared dead by the Bahamian maritime tribunal in June ten years ago. Marcus recorded that declaration with the Suffolk County Registry of Deeds nine years and eleven months ago.”

“Did Victor ever file the resuscitation petition?” Julian asked.

“He couldn't!” I said, my voice rising with triumphant energy. “Because if he filed the petition within the seven-year window, he would have had to appear in open court in Boston—which would have immediately triggered the federal warrant for the Poseidon Queen! He let the seven-year statute of repose expire!”

Julian let out a low whistle, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me straight out of my chair, spinning me in his arms before kissing me hard on the lips.

“You brilliant, beautiful woman,” Julian laughed against my mouth. “Under the doctrine of laches and the statutory repose of the 1954 charter itself, Victor Mercer is legally dead for the purposes of the Boston harbor patents! He has no standing!”

“None,” I smiled, breathless in his embrace. “He’s a ghost trying to sue a living corporation.”

Just then, my personal cell phone buzzed on the desk.

It was a text message from an unlisted number.

I picked it up. Julian looked over my shoulder.

The message read:

*“Evelyn. This is Elena. Victor has lost his mind. He has sent six armed men to Berth 14 to burn down the central dispatch terminal before dawn. He wants to destroy the computer servers containing the cooperative’s cargo logs. Stop him. Please. Protect my son.”*

My heart plummeted.

Julian’s face turned instantly to stone.