THE MIDNIGHT HEIR: HOW A FALLEN TRAY OF CHAMPAGNE UNMASKED A BILLION-DOLLAR LEGACY

The bright screen of Maya’s phone glared in the dim courtroom lighting, the single photograph casting an eerie, cold blue hue across her face. The image showed Clara’s young daughter—a ten-year-old girl with bright ribbons in her hair—sitting blindfolded on a wooden chair in an unfamiliar, windowless basement, a heavy digital timer strapped securely around her chest.

Maya’s breath caught in her throat. The pen slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the mahogany table and rolling across the polished wood.

“Maya? What is it?” Clara asked, turning away from her legal brief with a questioning frown. But as she saw the sudden, absolute terror drain the color from Maya’s face, Clara’s professional composure instantly shattered. “What’s wrong? Did the injunction get appealed?”

Without a word, Maya turned the phone around and pushed it across the table.

Clara stared down at the screen. For three agonizing seconds, the high-powered corporate attorney froze, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated maternal panic. A sharp, ragged gasp escaped her lips as she recognized the yellow backpack resting beside the chair in the photo.

“Chloe…” Clara whispered, her voice cracking into a broken sob as she snatched the phone off the table with trembling hands. “Oh god, my baby… they took my baby.”

Arthur Sterling, currently sitting in handcuffs across the aisle waiting for transport, let out a slow, chilling chuckle. He leaned back in his chair, a smug, vindictive smile spreading across his face. “Did you really think a billion-dollar empire was going to surrender without a backup plan, my dear? Evangeline may be in custody, but our partners don't lose that easily.”

Agent Miller stepped forward instantly, grabbing Arthur by the collar of his expensive suit and hauling him to his feet with raw fury. “Where is the girl? Give us the location of the safehouse right now, or I swear I’ll let you rot in a maximum-security black site for the rest of your natural life!”

“Check the metadata of the photo,” Arthur wheezed, maintaining his arrogant grin even as the tactical vest pressed into his chest. “You have twenty minutes before the countdown hits zero. And if Maya signs that estate transfer over to the board, the bomb deactivates automatically. Simple corporate leverage.”