THE TERMS OF RECKONING

While Emma worked in Brooklyn, the Sterling estate in Greenwich fell into the grip of a federal whirlwind.

By mid-afternoon, unmarked black sedans from the Department of Justice and the Internal Revenue Service had sealed the perimeter of the four-acre property. Agents in windbreakers carried dozen of blue banker boxes from Margaret’s private basement office, loading them into secure vans under the glare of news helicopter cameras circling overhead.

David sat in the library, the mahogany doors locked, his phone ringing continuously with calls from corporate board members, private equity partners, and frantic family lawyers.

He answered none of them.

He sat in his father’s leather wingback chair, staring at the framed portrait of Arthur Sterling above the fireplace.

For fifteen years, David had convinced himself that his duty as the eldest son was to preserve the family name at all costs. He had signed papers without reading them; he had looked the other way when his mother belittled his wife; he had swallowed his own conscience until he forgot what it sounded like.

The library door clicked open.

Claire stepped inside, wearing an oversized sweater and no makeup. She walked over and sat on the floor beside his chair, resting her head against his knee just as she used to do when they were children hiding from their parents' screaming matches in the nursery.

""What do we do now, David?"" Claire whispered, her voice trembling.

David looked down at his sister, then reached out and placed his hand on her hair.