Chapter 4

I'd wrestled with the decision for hours, but ultimately agreed to meet.

What I hadn't anticipated was Kayla choosing a private club in Chelsea—in a VIP room, no less. And Robert was there too.

"Nora, you made it!" Hearing the name I'd buried twenty years ago made my skin crawl.

Kayla rushed forward to link arms with me. I sidestepped, my expression ice-cold.

"Your text said if I showed up, you'd stop the death threats online." I pulled out a chair and sat, meeting her eyes directly. "So talk. What's this really about?"

Kayla withdrew her hand smoothly, dropping the act. She pulled a thick stack of legal documents from her Hermès bag and slid them across the table, naked greed in her eyes.

"Alright, Nora. Let's be honest. I control the narrative right now. One statement from me, and those crazies online will back off." She tapped the papers with a manicured nail.

"But I'm getting married soon, and I want your Central Park penthouse. You can afford it—call it a wedding gift."

I glanced at the property transfer agreement. The audacity was staggering. "You're joking."

"I'm not done." Kayla leaned back, crossing her legs. "That trust fund you inherited from the Vances? I want my name added. Fifty-fifty split on the annual distributions. You sign these, I clear your name tomorrow. Everyone wins."

I stared at her in disbelief, then shifted my gaze to Robert, who'd been silent until now.

This "devoted father" who'd sobbed on camera cleared his throat, **his tone dripping with the false sorrow of a neglected parent:

"Nora, please. Kayla's been the one bearing the burden of caring for me while you've been off making your fortune. As my child, you have a moral and financial obligation to this family."

"You've got more money than you know what to do with. Signing over one apartment and sharing a trust fund—it's really the bare minimum of your duty as a daughter."

Robert shook his head sadly, playing his role of the forgiving victim to perfection. "Just sign. Think of it as making up for twenty years of absence. We get this paperwork done, we can all go on TV together, show the world you're finally doing the right thing, and put this whole ugly mess behind us."

The silence stretched. I nearly laughed.

"So the whole 'searching for my lost daughter' act was complete garbage?"

I stood up slowly, my voice deadly calm. "You dug into my finances, used that show to sick a mob on me, all to squeeze me for money?"

Robert's face flushed with self-righteous anger. "I'm your father! What's so wrong with demanding the support I am rightfully owed?! You think you can just abandon your obligations to us?! Without Kayla running interference, you won't be able to show your face anywhere in this city tomorrow!"

"Then let me be very clear." I leaned forward, my voice dropping to ice. "I would rather set every dollar on fire than give you two a penny."

I held his gaze. "And stop calling us family. Twenty years ago, in that fire—the second you stepped over Mom and Marcus to save that neighbor girl for the cameras—you stopped being my father."

"You're getting nothing from me. Ever."

I grabbed the documents, tore them cleanly in half, and threw them at Kayla's face before turning toward the door.

"You're going to regret this, Nora!" Her voice cracked with fury behind me.

I pushed through the club entrance. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, chaos erupted.

"There she is!" "That's the bitch who abandoned her own father!"

This wasn't random. Kayla had tipped them off. A dozen people with phones out, faces twisted with rage, surged past the security barrier.

SPLASH—

Thick red paint hit me like a wave, the stench choking as it covered my face and hair.

"Rich bitch can't spare a dime for her own dad!" "Hope you die over there!"

Fists and objects came at me from all sides. Something metal—a selfie stick—cracked against my shoulder blade. I threw my arms over my head, trying to stay on my feet as someone shoved me hard.

Through the chaos, I caught a glimpse of Robert emerging from the club.

Watching strangers beat his "long-lost daughter," this heroic firefighter didn't move to help. He actually backed away, worried about his suit getting splattered.

Kayla stood safe on the steps above, arms folded, not even hiding her satisfied smile as she held up her phone to record.

A heavy-set man grabbed a fistful of my paint-soaked hair. Someone else raised a large portable charger overhead, aiming for my skull—

"NYPD! Back away from her! Now!"

Sirens screamed. Patrol cars screeched to the curb and officers in uniform rushed forward, using their bodies and batons to break up the mob.

The violence stopped instantly. The street was a disaster.

I stood there covered in dripping red paint, looking like I'd crawled out of a crime scene. But I didn't wipe my face. I straightened up and held my ground.

Slowly, I raised my arm. Past the attackers being restrained on the ground, I pointed up the steps—at Kayla and Robert, their faces suddenly pale, Kayla fumbling to hide her phone.

I turned to the nearest officer. Wiping the paint from my eyes, I spoke clearly:

"I need to file charges."

I kept my finger pointed at them. "Against those two. Defamation. Extortion. And setting up this attack."