"And then?"
"And then we figure out how to take them down."
Ethan looked at the folders spread across his desk. At the photographs, the bank statements, the evidence of years of corruption.
Then he looked at Isabella—at her tired eyes, her stubborn jaw, the way she sat slightly forward in her chair, like she was always ready to move.
"Why me?" he asked. "Why not go to the police? The FBI? Someone with actual authority?"
"I tried." Isabella's voice was flat. "They told me I was mistaken. They told me I didn't understand how things worked. They told me to be careful." She paused. "Three months later, my apartment was broken into. Nothing was taken. Just a warning."
"You think the police are involved."
"I think the foundation has friends in a lot of places." Isabella sat back. "But you—you're not a journalist. You're not a cop. You're Ethan Vance, heir to the Vance shipping fortune. You have resources. Connections. And after what happened at the gala, you have a platform."
"A platform?"
"Everyone saw you stand up. Everyone saw Brooke humiliate you. The story went viral—you're a sympathy figure now. A survivor. If you start asking questions, people will listen."
Ethan was quiet for a long moment.
"You've been planning this for a while," he said.
"I've been hoping for something like this for years." Isabella met his eyes without flinching. "You're the first person who's ever made me think it might actually be possible."
They worked together until the sun went down. Isabella ordered Chinese food at some point; Ethan didn't remember eating it. The documents spread across his desk like a map of a world he'd never known existed—a world of secret accounts and offshore shell companies, of bribes and threats and carefully orchestrated silence.
By the time they finished, Ethan's head was spinning.
"There's one more thing," Isabella said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small USB drive. "This is everything I've gathered over the past two years. Encrypted files, photographs, audio recordings. If anything happens to me—"
"Nothing's going to happen to you."
"You don't know that." She slid the drive across the desk. "Keep it hidden. Keep it safe. And if you don't hear from me for more than forty-eight hours, go to the press. Go to the FBI. Go to everyone."
"Isabella—"
"Promise me."