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She holds my gaze, then pushes a photo toward me. A crime scene. A man slumped over a desk, blood pooled beneath him, spreadsheets soaked red.

"Thomas Nolan. My father." Her voice cracks. "I found him like this when I came home from debate team. I was seventeen."

The photo shows what the police report couldn't convey. The brutality. The intimacy of the kill.

"Your father began investigating discrepancies in our shipping accounts," I say. "He found evidence of money laundering."

"He trusted the wrong person with what he discovered." Orla drains her glass. "He thought he was doing the right thing."

"And you? What was your endgame? Turn evidence over to Doyle? Take down my family?"

"Justice." She pours another drink with unsteady hands. "At first I wanted revenge. Blood for blood. But I needed proof—evidence that would stick in court."

"Why not go to the police with what you had?"

"The same police who closed his case after three weeks? Who reported it as a robbery gone wrong despite nothing being stolen?" Her calm facade cracks. "I needed evidence that couldn't be buried or bought off."

I circle the table, approaching her with predatory focus. "So you lied your way into my company. Into my bed."

She stands, refusing to be cornered. "Yes."

"Was any of it real?"

Pain flashes across her face. "I didn't plan New York."

"That's not an answer."

"What answer would satisfy you?" she asks. "That I compromised my mission every time you touched me? That I hated myself after copying your files? That I've spent months torn between my promise to my dead father and my feelings for you?"

I advance until she backs against the wall. "And what feelings would those be, Orla? Or is that even your real name?"

"Orla is my real name. Everything else was fabricated."

"Everything?"

Her chin lifts in defiance. "Not everything."

My palm strikes the wall beside her head. She doesn't flinch.

"Tell me about the meeting with Doyle today."

Her eyes never leave mine. "He wanted information on the Russian shipping arrangement. Proof of smuggling. He offered immunity."

"And you gave him what he wanted."

"No." She swallows. "I didn't."

My laugh lacks humor. "Expecting me to believe that?"

"I discovered something yesterday. The money trail leads to James Sullivan, not your father." Her voice steadies. "Sullivan ordered my father's death when his embezzlement was discovered. Your brother pulled the trigger, but Sullivan gave the order."

The name hits me hard. Dad's right-hand man for fifteen years. His most trusted lieutenant.

"You have proof?"

"In those files. Account numbers, dates, signatures. Sullivan was stealing for years. My father found out."

I remain close, crowding her against the wall. Her scent—familiar yet different now that I know the truth—clouds my judgment.