I started with her—the woman in the photo.
Her name was Nina Graves, according to a quiet search on an internal contact directory. Former legal counsel to Hart Holdings. Left abruptly two years ago.
No public reason.
I found her office listed under a boutique law firm across the city.
No security. No cameras. Just a bell and a locked door.
I didn't call ahead.
I wanted her reaction unfiltered.
When she opened the door and saw me, she froze.
"Vanessa Wen," I said. "I'm with Ethan Hart."
Her eyes widened—not with recognition, but with something colder. Older.
"You should leave," she said immediately.
"I just want to talk."
She looked me over, and in that moment, I knew she saw it all—the tired eyes, the branded silence, the invisible chain around my neck.
"I was you," she said softly. "Once."
I swallowed. "Then you know why I'm here."
She let me in.
We talked for hours—quietly, carefully. She told me things I had only suspected: the confidential settlements, the way Ethan's father used people as pawns, the way Ethan learned to control not with threats, but with guilt and gifts.
"He doesn't break you," she said. "He makes you break yourself. And then he catches the pieces like a savior."
I asked why she left.
"I fell in love," she said. "Not with him. With someone who made me realize what love isn't."
When I stood to leave, she handed me a flash drive.
"I don't know what you're planning," she said. "But if you're going to make him bleed—don't miss."
I returned to Ethan's apartment late that night.
He was waiting for me on the balcony, whiskey in hand, city lights reflected in his eyes.
"You look different," he said.
I smiled softly.
"I am."