Matthew did not move when Elena recoiled from him.

He simply turned the phone face down on the seat, as if hiding the name could erase what she had seen.

— You know her, Elena whispered.

The SUV behind them flashed its headlights twice.

The driver’s eyes flicked to the mirror.

— Sir, they’re signaling us.

Elena’s hand found the door handle, but Matthew caught her wrist before she could pull it. He did not squeeze hard. He did not hurt her. Somehow, that made it worse.

— If you jump now, they will have you in thirty seconds, he said.

— And if I stay with you?

For the first time, his calm expression cracked.

— Then you might survive long enough to hear why your stepmother has been calling me all week.

Elena stared at him, rain streaking down the tinted glass beside her face. The road curved sharply into a line of old warehouses, far from the city, far from witnesses.

Matthew opened a small compartment between the seats and took out a sealed brown envelope.

Her name was written on it.

Elena Vargas.

Her breath stopped.

— What is that?

Matthew looked at the envelope as if it weighed more than money, more than secrets, more than guilt.

— Something your father left before he died.

Elena shook her head.

— My father died with nothing.

— That’s what Isabel needed you to believe.

The SUV rammed closer, nearly kissing their bumper.

Matthew’s driver cursed under his breath and swerved beneath a broken streetlamp.

The envelope slid into Elena’s lap.

Inside it, beneath an old photograph, was a document stamped with the name of her father’s company.

And on the last page, where Elena expected to see Isabel’s signature, she saw a name that made her body go numb…