"I want you to cooperate and tell the world you’re my private daughter," Yves Zimmerman said, palms flat on the table. "You're asking me to lie." I kept my voice level. I didn't look at his palms. "You don't understand family politics," he said. "You don't understand protection. Say the line, smile, and the Chen family disappears from every feed. My social channels bury their scandals. Your mother—" He stopped as if erasing the word would change it. "I do understand protection." I pushed the envelope back across the table. "I know what buys silence. I know what sells a story. I also know who paid the driver who drove Joan Andrews home that night." Yves's throat moved. "That's a lie. You have nothing." "I have everything you hide," I said. "You made sure the phone records went cold. You paid Forrest Perkins to shuffle files. Kataleya staged the charity gala so no one noticed the alley exit." I spoke names like dropping stones; they hit the table and left rings. He laughed, sharp and thin. "You think throwing accusations in my parlor is brave? You think the press will take you seriously?" "I think the press will take it seriously if I text one name to one reporter. I think the Kunpeng dossier on the Chen investment wing will make them eat the charity press releases for breakfast." I didn't explain what Kunpeng was. I didn't have to. Three sentences