Three days before Emma Bennett was supposed to become Mrs. Cole Marston, she walked into the Harbor Crown Hotel carrying a folder of wedding invoices and found her younger sister sitting on her fiancé’s lap.

Inside the Harbor Crown penthouse suite, Cole Marston stretched luxuriously beneath high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. The champagne bottle from the night before sat empty on the nightstand, beside scattered wedding invitation proofs that now read like a bad joke.

Tessa was curled against his side, lazily tracing circles on his bare shoulder.

“Do you think she’s okay?” Tessa asked, though her tone suggested she cared about as much for Emma’s well-being as she did for a rained-out picnic.

“Emma is resilient,” Cole muttered dismissively, closing his eyes. “She’ll pack her bags, move back to her apartment, and cry into her sketchpads for a week. Give it a few days, and she’ll block our numbers. By next month, the family will have accepted the narrative that we drifted apart.”

“And the wedding deposit?” Tessa purred, propping her chin on his chest. “The reception hall is non-refundable, you know. We could just repurpose it. A post-engagement party. Make it official.”

Cole opened one eye, smiling lazily. “You’re ruthless, Tess.”

“I’m practical,” she corrected, leaning up to kiss him. “Unlike your saintly ex-fiancée, who spent three years organizing charity bake sales and worrying about table runners.”

Before Cole could reply, his cell phone buzzed violently on the bedside table.

He groaned, reaching blindly for the screen. The caller ID flashed Corporate Compliance - Marston Shipping Legal Division.

“Damn it,” Cole muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face. “It’s corporate compliance. They must be following up on the quarterly trust distribution paperwork.”

“Answer it,” Tessa urged, sitting up as well. “Tell them we’re busy.”

Cole swiped the screen and pressed it to his ear. “Cole Marston here.”

“Mr. Marston,” a sharp, cold voice responded. It wasn't the compliance secretary; it was senior legal counsel Marcus Vance. “You are required to report to the executive boardroom at Marston Tower immediately. Your presence has been requested by the primary trustee.”

Cole frowned, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “My presence? Today is Saturday. The board doesn't meet on Saturdays unless—wait, is my brother down there?”

“Mr. Adrian Marston is presiding over an extraordinary session,” Marcus replied crisply. “Bring your financial disclosure receipts for the past two quarters. Do not be late.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Cole lowered the phone slowly, a sudden knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. “That’s weird. Adrian called an extraordinary session. They’re asking for financial disclosures.”

“So what?” Tessa rolled her eyes, throwing off the duvet and walking toward the bathroom. “You’re the golden boy. Adrian’s got half a billion dollars in shipping contracts to manage; he doesn't have time to micro-manage your personal investments.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cole muttered, though his hands shook slightly as he began pulling his clothes on.

Forty-five minutes later, Cole pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Marston Tower executive boardroom. He expected to see the usual group of elderly board members dozing over paperwork.

Instead, the room was dead silent.

Seated around the massive mahogany table were five senior board members, legal counsel Marcus Vance, and Adrian Marston, who sat at the absolute head of the table with his hands folded neatly over a thick manila folder.

And sitting directly to Adrian’s right, wearing a sharp charcoal blazer and holding a gold-plated fountain pen, was Emma Bennett.

Cole stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

“E-Emma?” Cole stammered, looking from her immaculate, composed face to his older brother. “What is she doing here? This is a private corporate session.”