The grainy images on Britney's phone screen seemed to burn themselves onto her retinas. The two babies. The birth certificate. The nervous, younger face of the woman she'd called 'Mom' her entire life. The anonymous warning. The silence of her apartment pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating, a stark contrast to the echoing grandeur of the museum just hours before.
Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to claw its way up her throat. She was alone with a secret that could detonate multiple lives. Her first instinct was to call the police, a lawyer, someone. But a chilling sentence from the email held her back: Be careful who you trust.
Who could she trust? The Finches were a minefield. The police might be swayed by Finch influence or dismiss it as a family dispute. A lawyer would demand answers she couldn't fully give.
Her finger hovered over her contacts list. It landed on a name she never thought she'd consider for a crisis of this magnitude.
Klaus Smith.
The thought was insane. He was her boss. A man who dealt in billion-dollar assets, not stolen birthrights. A man who valued efficiency over emotion. He would likely tell her this was an inefficient use of his time, a personal distraction from the Verity acquisition.
But he was also the only person who had seen Serene's venom firsthand. The only one who had acknowledged the "enmity" and hadn't dismissed it. He was a strategist. A problem-solver. And right now, she was facing a problem far more complex than any merger.
Before she could talk herself out of it, driven by a desperation that overrode all professional caution, she hit the call button.
It rang twice. Her heart hammered against her ribs. What was she doing? It was the middle of the night.
The line connected. There was no "hello." Only the sound of his even breathing, waiting.
"It's Britney," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her effort to control it.
"I'm aware," his tone was flat, devoid of sleep. He was undoubtedly still working. "The gala ended over an hour ago. Is there an issue with the car service?"
"No. The car was… adequate." She swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign in this context. "It's something else. Something… personal. And I… I don't know who else to…"
She trailed off, feeling foolish. This was a mistake.
There was a long pause on the other end. She could almost hear him calculating, weighing the interruption against her perceived value.
"Is this personal issue a threat to your work performance?" he asked, his voice clinical.
"Yes," Britney answered immediately, the truth of it crystal clear. "It's a significant distraction. And a potential… liability."
Another pause, shorter this time. "My address is 1001 Skyview Tower. Penthouse A. The security desk will be notified. Be here in twenty minutes."
The line went dead.
He hadn't asked for details. He'd assessed the situation based on her tone and his own parameters—work performance, liability, efficiency—and had issued a directive. Britney didn't know if she felt relieved or terrified.
Twenty minutes later, she was standing in the private elevator soaring to the top of the most exclusive residential tower in the city. She was still in her pajamas under a worn coat, the phone with the evidence clutched in her hand.
The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse. It was exactly as she'd imagined: a vast, minimalist space of concrete, glass, and steel, offering a breathtaking, almost violent, panorama of the city lights. It was stunning, cold, and utterly devoid of personal touch. A perfect reflection of its owner.
Klaus stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of water. He had changed into dark sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to diminish his imposing presence. He turned as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her disheveled state with no visible reaction.
"Explain," he said, dispensing with any form of greeting.
Wordlessly, her hands shaking, Britney walked over and handed him her phone, the email open on the screen.
He took it. His eyes scanned the text, then flicked over the attachments. He zoomed in on the photos, studied the birth certificate. His expression didn't change. There was no gasp of surprise, no muttered exclamation. He processed the information with the same detached focus he'd give a financial report.
After a full minute of silence, he handed the phone back to her. "So. The unexplained interest from James Finch. The pathological hostility from Serene. It now has a logical foundation."
Britney stared at him, stunned by his calm. "A logical foundation? Someone just sent me proof that my entire life is a lie, and that the woman who raised me stole me from my family! They're threatening me!"
"Correction," he said, taking a sip of water. "They are warning you. There is a difference. A threat is a promise of action from a hostile party. A warning is intelligence from an ambiguous ally. This," he gestured to the phone, "is the latter."
"Who would send this? Why?"
"The list of suspects is short. A remorseful subordinate of the保姆. A family member with a conscience. A rival of the Finches seeking to create chaos. The保姆 herself, experiencing a crisis of guilt." He listed the possibilities coolly. "The 'why' is currently irrelevant. The 'what' is what matters. You now possess actionable intelligence."
Britney hugged herself, feeling suddenly very small in his vast, sterile home. "What do I do with it? Do I go to James? To the police?"
"No." The word was immediate and absolute. "You do nothing."
"Nothing?" she echoed, disbelief cutting through her fear.
"You are not thinking strategically," he said, his voice low and intent. He moved to stand opposite her, the city sprawling behind him like his personal chessboard. "You have the advantage of surprise. Serene believes her secret is safe. James and Lora are ignorant. Your anonymous benefactor is waiting to see your move. If you reveal your hand now, you lose all leverage. You become a reactive player in their game."
He began to pace slowly, a predator analyzing its prey. "The timing of this is not a coincidence. It arrived after you gained significant ground: James's public admiration, your successful appearance at the gala, my… endorsement. Someone is equipping you for the next phase of the conflict."
He stopped and pinned her with his gaze. "Your course of action is clear. You continue to build your professional reputation. You maintain your social positioning. You observe James and Lora Finch with this new context. You gather more data. You wait for your anonymous source to make contact again. And you wait for Serene to make a mistake. She will. She is emotionally compromised. You are not."
His logic was a cold, clear wave, washing away the panic and leaving something solid in its place: a plan. He wasn't offering sympathy; he was offering a battle strategy. It was exactly what she needed.
"You're right," she said, her voice steadier. "I just… I saw those pictures and I…"
"Reacted emotionally. It's an inefficient response to an intelligence drop." He stated it as a simple fact, not a criticism. "The facts have not changed. Only your awareness of them. You are still Britney Carter. You are now just better informed."
A strange, almost hysterical laugh bubbled in her chest. Only Klaus Smith could frame an earth-shattering identity crisis as being "better informed."
He walked to a sleek intercom by the door. "My driver will take you home. Get sleep. Your focus at work must remain impeccable. This," he gestured between her and the phone, "is a secondary project for now."
He was dismissing her. The late-night audience was over. She had gotten more than she'd hoped for—not comfort, but a commander.
As she turned to leave, he spoke again. "Carter."
She looked back.
"From now on," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument, "you will forward any further communication of this nature to me immediately. I will analyze it."
It wasn't a request. It was an order. And for the first time that night, Britney felt a genuine sense of relief. She wasn't alone in the trenches anymore. She had just recruited the most formidable ally imaginable.
"Yes, sir," she said.
The elevator doors closed, leaving her with the faint, lingering impression of his calculating gaze and the silent, sprawling city below. The fear was still there, but it was now joined by a new, steely resolve. She had a war to win, and she had just been given her general.