“This isn’t the way it was supposed to be.” That’s all Adam Burlingham could say as City of London police, acting on orders from the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau, shut down his brokerage.

“Be careful, you oafs,” he shouted as two officers grabbed the antique stock ticker—his father’s gift, still nestled in its walnut base beneath a cracked glass globe. His father. What would he think now?

The old man, nearly blind and nearing ninety, wouldn’t understand how Adam—his namesake and heir to the firm he’d built from nothing—had become entangled in criminal investigation. Adam hadn’t even tried to explain.

Handcuffed in the back of an unmarked police car, Adam turned his gaze to the passing London streets. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the day Maximilian Muir had walked into his office. Young, charismatic, sharp-suited—Muir had spoken with such authority it had felt like prophecy. Within weeks, Adam had handed over access, praised him publicly, even dined with him and introduced him to clients.

Why hadn’t he seen what lurked behind the polish? Muir had vanished now, of course, and Adam—the CEO—was left to answer for everything.

How could he have been so blind? He wasn’t naïve. In fact, Lillian used to tease that he was too suspicious, too quick to look for ulterior motives.

Lillian.
Thank God she was already gone.

Even at her strongest, scandal sent her to bed for days. A public humiliation like this? It would have crushed her. She was always delicate, always his moral compass, and now, mercifully, beyond the reach of this shame.

But their children—William and Penelope—they’d read about this in the papers, see his name scrawled across tabloids. Would they ever speak to him again? He doubted it. Why should they? He deserved whatever prison cell was waiting for him.

His clients—those who trusted him for decades—how could he look them in the eye?

But the deeper shame was not professional.

The truth, the one he hadn’t even dared say aloud until now, was this: Muir had not merely flattered him with ambition. He had touched something far more fragile. Adam hadn’t craved money or even legacy. What he’d wanted—what he’d truly needed—was love. Not romantic, perhaps, not fully conscious, but love nonetheless. Admiration. Intimacy. The thrill of being seen.

He had let that young man into the very heart of his world not out of pride, but loneliness.

And Muir had seen that weakness. Had fed it. Exploited it.

Adam’s eyes stung. He blinked hard.

Worse than bilking clients. Worse than disgracing his family. The true humiliation was this: he’d let himself be conned because he wanted to be cherished.

How utterly foolish.

The car turned onto Bishopsgate. The city blurred. Adam leaned his head against the cool window glass.

He no longer cared about charges or court dates. Punishment seemed easier than facing the emptiness inside him. This wasn’t just the collapse of a business. It was the collapse of a man who should have known better.

He closed his eyes.

Let it come, he thought. Let the world take what it will.