Chapter 1

The final line of code compiled without an error, the project uploading to the cloud. I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, the leather sighing under my weight. Six months. Six months in a sterile Singapore office, fueled by lukewarm coffee and the relentless pressure of a multi-billion dollar tech merger. But it was done. I, Chloe, had delivered.

My phone buzzed on the glass desk. Not a corporate email, but a notification from a neighborhood watch group back home in our affluent suburb, a place I hadn't seen in half a year. I swiped it open without much thought.

The message was from a Mrs. Gable from down the street. "Chloe, I don't want to alarm you, but I thought you should see this. Is your mother okay?"

Attached was a short video.

I pressed play. The video was shaky, clearly filmed from a car window. It showed a woman with unkempt, graying hair, wearing a worn-out trench coat that was too big for her thin frame. She was bent over a neighbor's recycling bin, her hands methodically sorting through discarded food containers.

My breath caught in my throat.

I recognized the sharp line of her jaw, the elegant curve of her neck, even under the grime and confusion.

It was my mother, Eleanor.

A woman who was supposed to be on a luxurious six-month 'Round-the-World cruise, a gift from me. A woman who was a former esteemed art restorer, whose hands were once so steady they could repaint the eyelash of a Madonna on a 16th-century canvas.

Now, those same hands were scavenging for scraps in a neighborhood where the garbage trucks probably hauled away more gourmet leftovers than most people ate in a week.

The video ended. I sat frozen, the hum of the server farm in the next room suddenly deafening. It didn't make any sense. I had transferred a substantial amount into a trust fund for her, enough to ensure she would never have to worry about money again. I paid for everything. The house, the utilities, her expenses. Her cruise alone cost more than most people's cars. How could this be happening?

My fingers trembled as I opened my laptop, my mind racing. I needed another angle, another piece of information. Social media. My stepfather, Mark, wasn't very active, but the housekeeper, Brenda, was. I had insisted they hire live-in help before I left, to make sure Mom was looked after. Brenda' s profile was public.

I scrolled through weeks of posts. Pictures of fancy dinners, new handbags, weekend trips to Napa. All posted within the last six months. My stomach churned. Then I saw it. A photo from a "charity gala" two weeks ago.

Brenda stood in the center, beaming at the camera. She was wearing a gown I knew intimately. A custom-made silk organza dress, in a shade of deep emerald green I had commissioned from a designer in Paris for my mother's 60th birthday. It was a one-of-a-kind piece.

And around her neck, resting against her skin, was the heirloom sapphire necklace. My grandmother' s necklace. A cascade of deep blue stones set in antique platinum, a piece so distinctive and valuable it was insured for a small fortune. It was my gift to my mother when I sold my first company.

My mother's dress. My mother's necklace. On the housekeeper.

The air left my lungs. The initial shock hardened into a cold, sharp rage. It wasn't just that the items were being worn by someone else. It was those items. They were deeply personal, symbols of my love and success, meant only for my mother.

Brenda had no right.

The image was a declaration of war. A blatant, smug theft of my mother's identity and my affection. The woman in the video, rummaging through trash, and the woman in this photo, flaunting stolen luxury, were two sides of a horrifying, unbelievable coin. And I was about to find out how they connected.