Three Hours to Find My Daughter, or I Burn It All Down

My four-year-old vanished inside my husband's office, and the only thing he cared about was comforting his sobbing little secretary. So I locked them all in a boardroom and started a countdown. Three hours. Find my daughter, or every bank record, every porn receipt, every dirty affair on those phones goes public.They thought I was bluffing. Then the first phone buzzed.What I didn't know: my husband is sterile. His mistress's son isn't his. And the woman crying in his arms just hid my baby somewhere in this building. The countdown isn't a threat anymore. It's a death sentence.