Chapter 3 - The Audit of Souls
The penthouse suite of the Sterling tower was a stark contrast to the opulence of the Whitmore estate. It was clean, efficient, and filled with the scent of pine and old paper—the smell of my father’s life. I sat in a silk chair while Sarah Jenkins, the attorney, meticulously documented every bruise, every insult, and every detail of the evening.
"They won't just fold, Charles," Sarah said, her eyes fixed on her laptop. "Richard is going to try to buy his way out of this. He’s already calling his contacts at the DA’s office."
"Let him," my father said, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the lights of Chicago twinkle below. "I’ve spent the last six months preparing for this moment. Not for the divorce, but for the realization that his company was bleeding dry. I have every transaction, every offshore account, every bribe he’s paid in the last decade."
I looked at my hands. They were still shaking. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He turned, his expression softening. "Because I knew you wouldn't listen, Emma. You were in love. I knew that if I came in with guns blazing, you would have defended him. You had to see it for yourself. I just didn't expect them to be so cruel."
I thought about the dress. I thought about the laughter. "I thought they were my family."
"They were never your family," he said firmly. "They were a business arrangement that you were never properly briefed on. But that ends tonight."
The door chime rang. It was Noah, the valet. He had been brought up by my father’s security team. He looked nervous, his cap clutched in his hands.
"Mr. Sterling," he said, bowing his head. "I have the information you requested."
My father nodded and took a small, black drive from Noah. "Thank you, son. You’ve done a great service for this family."
As Noah left, my father plugged the drive into the conference table’s monitor. He clicked a file, and a video filled the screen. It was clear, high-definition footage from a camera hidden in the ceiling of Evelyn’s dressing suite.
It showed Evelyn. It showed her taking her own necklace, placing it in a velvet pouch, and then—with a calculated smile—tucking it into the inner lining of her own expensive designer handbag.
I stared at the screen, a cold numbness spreading through me. "She did it to herself."
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"She did it to frame you," my father corrected. "She didn't care about the money. She cared about the spectacle. She wanted you gone so she could install a woman of her choosing—someone who wouldn't question the books."
I felt a surge of rage, but it was eclipsed by a strange, liberating clarity. I wasn't the thief. I was the target. And the target had just become the hunter.
