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“I called Marigold. Or I guess, considering the situation it's probably better to refer to her as The Tigress.”

That made the room go still.

Drew stopped halfway across the room. Annerly hovered just inside the doorway. Even Anton, silent as a ghost, stood frozen on the last step.

Christa set down the mug, folding her hands tightly in her lap. “Honey gave me her number. I called. Told her everything.” She swallowed. “Marigold said she’s been holding on to something. Evidence. She told me not to let you do anything rash. No press. No retaliation. Just… wait.”

“Wait?” Drew’s voice was sharp. “That’s her grand plan?”

Christa’s hands twitched. “She said to keep you close. Keep youquiet.And watch the news.”

I stood up slowly, walked to the far wall, and grabbed the remote. My hands weren’t shaking, but it was a near thing. Is this the thing she told the twins she had for us... the thing she wanted to share with us? If we proved ourselves? A small spark of hope built in my chest.

The TV powered on with a lowclick. The screen flickered, light spilling across the room. I flipped to the local news station—the one that always had a camera ready when politicians got cuffed or scandal broke.

Christa sat back on the sectional with a small, forced smile. “Boys and their giant TVs,” she muttered.

None of us laughed.

Anton came to sit on her left. Drew dropped down on her right. Annerly knelt on the floor near her feet, head bowed slightly like he was listening through the bond for any flicker of distress.

I stayed standing, remote in hand, eyes locked on the screen.

The anchor was smiling, talking about the weather.

For now.

But it wouldn’t last. I could feel it—like thunder rolling across a flat field.

Tracy had made a move. Marigold had made a counter.

Now all we could do was wait.

And hope the trap we’d walked into… wasn’t tighter than the one Marigold had laid for her.

The weather segment faded into a headline stinger.

I felt Christa's emotions heighten at the same time as I saw her tense next to Drew.

“Breaking news this hour,” the anchor said, suddenly somber. “Tracy Welch—local philanthropist and former owner of Sugarly’s Family Steakhouse franchise—has been taken into custody this morning under suspicion of fraud and will tampering related to her late husband's estate.”

A video clip played: Tracy in a grey skirt suit, hair perfect, lipstick bold—being led in cuffs through the courthouse rotunda by two uniformed officers. She looked furious. No smug smirk, no cool mask. Just the thin, brittle fury of a woman who thought herself untouchable.

Christa gasped, one hand flying to her mouth.

The anchor’s voice continued over the footage. “Investigators allege that Welch falsified documents and stole the inheritance of at least one heiress in order to seize control of multiple properties and financial accounts, including that of her late husband’s estate.”

My stomach turned to ice.

Drew muttered a curse under his breath.

Annerly leaned forward, hands clenched.

The screen cut to a live press conference. A clean-cut detective in a navy blazer stood behind a podium, flanked by two deputies. Behind them, the Omega Centre seal gleamed on the wall.

“We believe Tracy Welch acted alone, but we’re currently seeking the cooperation of a young woman believed to be her stepdaughter,” the detective announced. “This individual was legally entitled to the inheritance that Ms. Welch attempted to claim through fraudulent means. We have reason to believe thestepdaughter may not be aware of the full extent of what was taken from her, and we urge her to come forward.”

Christa stared at the screen, breath held.