A Billionaire Painted “LIAR” on a Pregnant Woman’s Dress and Humiliated Her in Front of Everyone. But When Her Sister Fought Back, a Hidden Prisoner Was Discovered Behind a Painting. Then Three Knocks Came From a Locked Room—and the Pregnant Woman Recognized Who Was Inside!

Marcus Vance stood on the threshold, framed by the glare of high-beam headlights. Up close, his hair was stark silver, his pale blue eyes cold and predatory behind horn-rimmed spectacles. Two hulking men in tactical gear flanked the porch steps, their hands hovering inside their dark parkas.

"Emma," Marcus murmured, his eyes sweeping over her face with clinical appraisal. "You have your mother's stubborn jawline. A pity it came with Thomas’s peasant blood."

"Stay off this porch," Emma said, her voice resonant, clear, and devoid of the trembling that had once defined her. "You died in Geneva seven years ago, Mr. Vance. Or should I say... grandfather?"

Marcus smiled, a thin, razor-like parting of his lips. "Death is a legal convenience for men with sufficient capital, my dear. Helena was a fool. She let personal spite get in the way of business. Painting your dress? Childish theatrics. She should have had you liquidated the day you began asking questions about the Crown provenance."

"Like you liquidated the man in the tunnel twenty minutes ago?" Ryan’s voice boomed from the shadows as he stepped beside Emma, his tall frame blocking Marcus’s direct line to the baby.

Marcus's eyes shifted to Ryan, a flash of genuine amusement dancing in his gaze. "Ah, the painter. You survived the cellar cage. Impressive. Most men lose their minds after thirty days of total sensory deprivation. You lasted eight months."

"I had something to come back to," Ryan said through gritted teeth.

"How quaint," Marcus sighed, leaning heavily on his cane. "Give me the key, Emma. And give me the original deed. In return, I will allow you and your little family to board an aircraft to Lisbon tomorrow morning. A trust fund of fifty million dollars will be placed in Hope's name. You disappear, and you live in paradise. Refuse... and the fire that consumes this orchard tonight will be ruled a tragic gas leak."

"Fifty million dollars?" Claire’s voice called out from the darkness of the second-floor window above the porch. "Is that the going rate for buying silence on seventy thousand live viewers, Marcus?"

Marcus stiffened, his head snapping upward.