YOUR EX-HUSBAND INVITED YOU TO HIS MISTRESS’S BABY’S FIRST BIRTHDAY TO CALL YOU “BARREN”… SO YOU WALKED IN HOLDING THE HAND OF THE MAN HE BURIED ALIVE
You step through the ballroom doors and the first thing that hits you isn’t the music, because the music is dead. It’s the silence, thick as velvet, sliding over crystal glasses and designer dresses like a curtain. Hundreds of faces turn toward you at once, and the chandeliers above the Grand Ballroom of the Four Seasons in Midtown Manhattan suddenly feel too bright, as if they’re spotlighting a crime scene.
You keep your shoulders back and your chin lifted, not because you’re fearless, but because you refuse to give Franco Montemayor the gift of watching you shrink. The hotel staff freezes mid-step, the photographer’s flash hesitates, and even the baby’s little babble seems to fade, swallowed by the room’s collective curiosity. Your heels click on marble, steady and calm, the sound of a verdict being read.
Franco’s smile is still on his face when he sees you. It lasts exactly one second longer than it should. Then it tightens, like someone pulled a string behind his jaw.
Jessica, perched at his side with the baby on her hip, adjusts her grip like the child is a trophy that might slip. Her eyes flick over you, fast and sharp, measuring your dress, your hair, your expression. She’s hunting for cracks.
You don’t give her any.
Franco raises the microphone again, as if humor can patch over shock. “Well, well,” he says, voice bright with fake warmth. “Look who decided to grace us.”
A few nervous laughs ripple through the crowd, the kind people release when they can’t tell if they’re about to witness a toast or a demolition. Franco’s gaze drops toward your hands, expecting you to arrive alone, empty, humiliated.
That’s when you turn slightly, and the man beside you steps forward into the light.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looks like it was tailored for war. His hair is darker than you remember, and the scar along his temple is new, but his eyes are unmistakable. They’re the same eyes Franco once watched with resentment, the same eyes he ordered erased from every family photo.
A hush rolls through the room like a wave.
Some people gasp. Someone drops a champagne flute. And Franco’s face, for the first time in years, forgets how to perform.
“No,” Franco breathes, barely audible, even with the mic in his hand.
The man beside you takes one more step forward, and the air turns electric. “Hello, Franco,” he says calmly. “Miss me?”
That voice is the match.
Your ex-husband’s knuckles go white around the microphone. His lips part, but nothing comes out at first. It’s as if his mouth can’t find a sentence that fits a dead man returning to life in front of New York’s elite.
Jessica’s smile slips, a micro-expression of panic before she forces it back into place. “This is some kind of joke,” she says quickly, voice pitched to sound amused. “Who even is he?”
You let your eyes sweep the room, catching the glances of people who once believed Franco’s version of you. The “barren” wife. The defective woman. The convenient scapegoat. You inhale slowly, tasting revenge and champagne in the same breath.
“He’s the reason Franco’s hands are shaking,” you say, loud enough to carry.
The man beside you turns his head slightly, as if asking permission to speak. You nod once, subtle.
“My name is Daniel Montemayor,” he says, voice smooth and steady. “Franco’s older brother.”
A stunned murmur rises. Phones come out discreetly, screens glowing like tiny witnesses. Someone in the back whispers, “But Daniel died,” like saying it softly might keep it true.
Daniel’s gaze locks onto Franco. “Or at least,” he adds, “that’s what Franco told everyone.”
Your heart beats hard, but your voice stays calm. “You wanted me to come see a real family,” you say to Franco. “So I brought one.”
Franco’s nostrils flare. He tries to recover, tries to laugh, tries to drag the moment back under his control. “This is insane,” he says into the microphone, voice strained. “My brother is dead. He died in—”
“In a car accident?” Daniel finishes for him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “That story was beautifully staged. Even had a closed casket. Very theatrical.”
A ripple of whispers spreads. You can feel the room’s loyalty shifting like sand. Wealthy people are not loyal to truth, but they’re addicted to scandal, and scandal is a solvent.
Franco’s eyes dart to the exit, to security, to the hotel manager. He’s calculating. He always calculates.
Jessica tightens her hold on the baby, now visibly unsettled. “Franco,” she whispers, loud enough for you to hear, “do something.”
And Franco does what he always did with you. He goes for the throat.
He lifts the microphone and smiles again, but it’s sharper now. “If you’re going to crash my son’s birthday,” he says, “at least do it with dignity. Bringing some con artist to pretend he’s my dead brother… that’s low, even for you.”
A few people nod reflexively, grateful for a script. You can see it in their faces: Please, tell us what to believe so we don’t have to think.
You tilt your head. “You love calling people ‘fake’,” you say. “It’s your favorite word right after ‘barren.’”
The crowd stiffens at that. Several heads turn. Franco’s smile twitches.
Daniel reaches into his inner jacket pocket calmly and pulls out a small envelope. He holds it up without drama. “I don’t need you to believe in me,” he says. “I brought paperwork. Franco hates paperwork when it isn’t in his favor.”
He hands the envelope to the event photographer. “Open it,” Daniel says. “Read the name on the driver’s license.”
The photographer hesitates, glances at Franco, then at the crowd. He’s a hired witness, not a hero, but money has limits. Scandal pays too.
He opens the envelope with trembling fingers, pulls out an ID, and squints. “Daniel Montemayor,” he reads aloud.
The room inhales.
Franco’s face shifts, just for a second, into something ugly. Fear. Real fear.
Jessica laughs too loudly. “IDs can be forged,” she snaps.
Daniel nods as if she’s offered a polite suggestion. “Absolutely,” he says. “So let’s do something harder to forge.”
He turns to the older woman seated near the front, a matriarch with diamond earrings and a stiff posture. “Aunt Elena,” he says gently. “It’s been a long time.”
The woman’s lips part. Her eyes widen, wet instantly. “Danny?” she whispers, voice breaking like glass.
A sob escapes her, raw and involuntary. She stands, hands trembling, and steps toward him like she’s walking through a miracle. When she reaches him, she touches his face with shaking fingers, as if checking whether he’s solid.
“It’s you,” she gasps. “My God, it’s you.”
The crowd erupts into murmurs so loud they almost become sound again. Franco’s smile is gone now. His eyes flick to the baby, to Jessica, to the room, and you can see him losing his grip on the narrative.
He lowers the mic, voice suddenly quieter, dangerous. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says to Daniel.
Daniel’s expression doesn’t change. “You said that last time too,” he replies.
Your stomach tightens. There it is. The hint of history no one in this room has heard, the history Franco buried beneath money and a polished reputation.
You step forward, making sure you’re between Franco and Daniel in the way that matters. Not physically. Symbolically.
“Tell them,” you say, calm. “Tell them why he shouldn’t be here.”
Franco glares at you, hatred sharpening his features. “This isn’t about you,” he hisses under his breath.
You smile slightly. “It’s always been about me,” you reply. “You just didn’t realize I was taking notes.”
Daniel turns to the crowd, voice carrying without a microphone. “Twenty-two years ago,” he says, “our father died. The Montemayor company was up for grabs. Franco was young, charming, and hungry. I was older, and I refused to let the board hand him the throne without safeguards.”
People shift, attention locked. You can almost hear reputations being recalculated.
Daniel continues, “Franco didn’t want safeguards. He wanted control. And when he can’t control something, he destroys it.”
Franco steps forward abruptly. “Stop,” he snaps, voice cracking.
Daniel’s eyes don’t flinch. “The night I disappeared,” he says, “I met Franco to sign paperwork. He said he wanted peace. A family solution.”
Your breath catches. You remember the way Franco always called cruelty “a solution,” the way he labeled your grief “drama.”
Daniel’s voice stays level. “He served me a drink,” he says. “I remember the taste. Bitter. Metallic. And then I remember waking up somewhere dark, my wrists bruised, my head pounding.”
A collective gasp.
Jessica’s eyes widen, and for the first time she looks truly frightened. Not for Franco. For herself. Because she realizes she married a man who might poison people at parties.
Franco’s face turns red. “Lies,” he spits. “You were unstable. You left. You ran off like the coward you always were.”
Daniel’s jaw tightens slightly. “Coward?” he repeats softly. “You buried me with a story. I survived with scars. Let’s talk about courage.”
You step in, voice slicing through the tension. “And while he was busy burying his brother,” you say, “he was also burying the truth about me.”
Franco snaps his head toward you. “Don’t,” he warns.
You raise your chin. “Oh, I’m going to,” you say.
The crowd shifts again, hungry. This isn’t just a dead brother. This is a double scandal, two threads twisting into one rope.
You look at Franco’s guests, people who once congratulated him for leaving his “infertile” wife. “For five years,” you say, “Franco told me I was the reason we couldn’t have children. He pushed me through treatments, injections, appointments. He never once offered to get tested.”
Franco lifts his mic again, desperate to regain stage control. “This is not the time—”
“It’s the perfect time,” you cut in.
You pull out your phone, open a folder, and tap play. The hotel’s sound system isn’t yours, but your voice carries because the room wants it to.
A recorded call fills the air, tinny but clear. Franco’s voice, unmistakable: “Why would I get tested? People expect the woman to be the problem. It’s easier. And you’ll take the blame like you always do.”
Silence detonates.
Someone whispers, “Oh my God.”
Franco’s face drains of color. Jessica’s mouth opens, then closes. The baby starts fussing, sensing tension without understanding it.
You keep your gaze steady on Franco. “You didn’t just humiliate me,” you say. “You engineered my humiliation. You built it like you build your image: carefully, cruelly, and with witnesses.”
Franco’s voice shakes. “That recording is illegal,” he snarls.
You tilt your head. “So is attempted murder,” you reply, and you gesture subtly toward Daniel.
A ripple of shock spreads. People look at Daniel again, then back at Franco, recalculating the man they toasted.
Daniel steps forward and places a thick folder on the nearest table, right beside the birthday cake shaped like a crown. The symbolism is almost too perfect.
“In here,” Daniel says, “are medical records. Police reports. A signed statement from a private doctor who treated me after I escaped. And the part Franco never planned on: the original company documents that prove he altered the succession paperwork while I was gone.”
Franco lunges toward the folder like a reflex, but two men in suits move instantly. Not security. Not staff. They position themselves beside Daniel with quiet authority.
One of them flashes a badge. “Mr. Montemayor,” he says to Franco, “we need you to step back.”
The room freezes again, but this time it’s not curiosity. It’s consequence.
Jessica’s voice turns shrill. “What is this?” she demands. “Who are they?”
Daniel’s expression is calm. “They’re federal investigators,” he says. “The ones Franco’s lawyers couldn’t charm. I contacted them months ago.”
Franco’s jaw works. His eyes dart around, searching for an exit that doesn’t exist socially. This is what terrifies him more than prison: being seen falling.
You step closer, voice low enough that only he hears. “You wanted me to watch you build a ‘real family,’” you whisper. “Now watch me dismantle your fake empire.”
Franco’s face contorts with fury. “You think you’ve won?” he hisses. “You’re still alone.”
You smile, and it’s soft, almost pitying. “No,” you whisper back. “I’m just no longer yours to break.”
Jessica clutches the baby tighter and looks around, realizing the room is turning on them. Her eyes land on you, sharp with resentment. “This is your fault,” she spits.
You meet her gaze calmly. “No,” you say. “This is the bill for choosing a man who uses people.”
The investigator speaks again, louder now. “Franco Montemayor,” he says, “you are being detained for questioning in connection with allegations of fraud and obstruction, and we have warrants related to evidence tampering.”
Gasps. Phones. Murmurs. The party dissolves into a storm of whispers and camera angles.
Franco tries to straighten his suit, tries to summon his CEO posture, tries to smile. But his hands shake.
“Let’s not make a scene,” he says, voice strained, as if he still thinks he can negotiate reality.
Daniel’s eyes are cold. “You made a scene when you buried me,” he says. “This is just the encore.”
As Franco is escorted away from the stage, Jessica’s face collapses into panic. She looks down at the baby and then up at the crowd, seeing judgment everywhere. Her “victory” is melting in real time.
You watch Franco’s back as he’s led through the room, and you feel something inside you loosen. Not joy. Not even satisfaction. Relief, the kind that comes when a weight finally slides off your chest.
Aunt Elena clutches Daniel’s hand, sobbing quietly, whispering prayers under her breath. Daniel squeezes her hand once, his face softening for the first time.
Then he turns to you.
And suddenly the room feels far away.
“You did it,” he says quietly.
You swallow. “We did,” you correct, voice trembling now that the fight is over.
Daniel studies you, his gaze gentle and steady. “You could’ve stayed home,” he says. “You could’ve let him keep the story.”
You exhale slowly. “I lived under his story for too long,” you reply. “I wanted air again.”
Daniel nods once, then looks past you toward the ballroom’s chaos. “There’s one more thing,” he says.
Your heart tightens. “What?”
Daniel’s expression turns serious. “Franco didn’t just ruin your marriage,” he says. “He used it.”
You frown. “Used it how?”
Daniel lowers his voice. “He needed a wife with a clean image,” he says. “Someone who made him look stable. Respectable. Someone to stand beside him while he closed deals and built alliances.”
You feel a chill. Memories click into place: the sudden pressure to attend certain events, the way Franco coached your smile, the way he’d grip your waist a little too tightly when cameras were nearby.
“And when I couldn’t give him a child,” you whisper, bitterness rising, “he discarded me.”
Daniel’s eyes darken. “And he blamed you publicly,” he says. “Because he needed a reason that made him look like a victim.”
You nod slowly, the truth bitter but clean.
Daniel reaches into his pocket again and pulls out something small: a folded slip of paper. He hands it to you.
“What’s this?” you ask.
Daniel’s jaw tightens. “The name of the doctor Franco paid,” he says. “The one who falsified fertility results. The one who told you the problem was you.”
Your hands tremble as you unfold it. A name. A clinic. A Manhattan address.
You feel nausea twist in your stomach. “He paid someone,” you whisper.
Daniel’s voice is quiet. “He didn’t want you to question him,” he says. “He wanted you to break yourself trying to fix something that wasn’t yours.”
The room blurs slightly. Five years of needles, tears, shame, and quiet nights convincing yourself you were defective. All of it engineered.
Valeria’s voice from your past memory echoes: Don’t let them hurt you again.
You lift your head. “I’m not done,” you whisper.
Daniel watches you, and there’s something like respect in his eyes. “I know,” he says.
Two weeks later, the story is everywhere.
Not your story. Franco’s.
Headlines scream about the scandal: the “dead” brother returning, the federal investigation, the arrest at a billionaire’s baby party. The media eats Franco alive in small, perfect bites.
Jessica does interviews crying on cue, claiming she “had no idea.” She posts photos with the baby, begging for sympathy. The internet is ruthless.
But you don’t do interviews. You don’t post. You don’t perform.
You walk into a law office with Daniel beside you and a folder of your own evidence. Medical records. Emails. Appointment schedules. Financial transfers you never knew to look for until Daniel showed you what to search.
Your attorney, a sharp woman named Marissa Lane, taps the folder and nods. “This,” she says, “is a case.”
You exhale slowly. “I don’t want revenge,” you say.
Marissa looks up. “Then what do you want?”
You stare at the documents and feel the answer settle in your bones. “Truth,” you say. “And my name back.”
The lawsuit hits like thunder.
Fraud. Defamation. Emotional distress. Medical malpractice against the clinic that helped Franco weaponize your body.
Franco’s lawyers try to intimidate you. They send letters. They threaten counterclaims. They leak rumors. But the world has already smelled blood, and Franco’s brand is collapsing.
Meanwhile, Daniel gives a formal statement to investigators. The story of his disappearance becomes public: the poisoned drink, the kidnapping, the months of captivity in a rural property Franco secretly owned. Daniel’s escape, his recovery, his quiet years building evidence.
People ask why he waited so long.
Daniel answers simply: “Because I wanted him to fall on facts, not drama.”
In court, Franco tries to look calm. He wears a navy suit and the expression of a man who believes he can out-argue reality. He denies everything, calls you bitter, calls Daniel delusional.
But then the clinic’s accountant testifies.
And the wire transfers appear on a screen, large enough for the courtroom to see. Payments from Montemayor Holdings to “consulting services” that match the dates of your fertility tests. Emails that instruct staff to “present the results with sensitivity.”
Sensitivity. The word makes you want to laugh.
You sit in the witness chair and feel the weight of every eye in the room. You don’t cry. You don’t shake. You speak clearly.
You tell them what it felt like to be labeled broken. To be left. To be mocked publicly. To be turned into a punchline at a celebration.
You look at Franco when you speak, not because you fear him, but because you want him to hear you as a person, not a prop. “You didn’t just leave me,” you say. “You edited me. You rewrote me into a villain so you could be a hero.”
Franco’s jaw tightens.
Then Daniel testifies.
He doesn’t dramatize. He doesn’t raise his voice. He describes the taste of the drink, the darkness, the bruises, the fear. He describes waking up to a radio playing news of his “death.”
The courtroom goes quiet in the way it goes quiet when a lie finally runs out of oxygen.
In the end, the judge rules in your favor in the civil case, and the malpractice settlement forces the clinic into bankruptcy. Franco’s company board removes him permanently. Investors flee. His empire collapses the way it was built: quickly, once the truth touches it.
Jessica tries to salvage something, but the public turns cold. The people who once applauded her “happy family” now see her as collateral damage at best, complicit at worst.
And you?
You walk out of the courthouse into sunlight that feels strange on your skin, like you’re learning how to live again. Daniel stands beside you, hands in his pockets, watching the sky like someone who spent too long underground.
“You okay?” he asks.
You breathe in slowly. “I don’t know,” you admit. “But I’m free.”
Months later, on a quiet Saturday, you receive a small package in the mail. No gold envelope. No embossed name. Just plain cardboard.
Inside is a letter from the fertility clinic’s former head nurse. She writes that she’s sorry. That she didn’t understand at the time. That she hopes you can forgive her.
Beneath the letter is something else: a full copy of your original test results.
Normal. Healthy. Not “barren.” Not broken.
You sit at your kitchen table and stare at the papers until your vision blurs. You don’t cry right away. You just breathe. And breathe. And breathe.
Then the tears come, not from sadness, but from the release of a shame that never belonged to you.
Later that evening, Daniel meets you at a small park near the river. The city hums. Kids laugh. Life moves forward like it always does, indifferent to the drama that once felt like the end of the world.
You sit on a bench, papers folded in your bag like a passport to a new self.
Daniel glances at you. “So,” he says quietly, “what now?”
You look out at the water. For the first time in years, you don’t feel like your future is a punishment. You feel like it’s unwritten.
“Now,” you say, voice soft but steady, “I build a life that isn’t based on proving I’m enough.”
Daniel nods, and there’s a quiet warmth in his expression. “Good,” he says. “Because you always were.”
You turn toward him, surprised by how simple it feels to sit with someone who doesn’t try to own your story.
And you realize the final twist Franco never planned for: you didn’t just survive his cruelty.
You reclaimed your name, your body, your truth… and your ability to begin again.
PART 2
The silence inside the ballroom didn’t break immediately.
It thickened.
Like the entire room was holding its breath, waiting for someone to wake up from a nightmare.
Franco’s eyes stayed locked on Daniel as if staring long enough might make him disappear again.
But Daniel didn’t move.
He simply stood there beside you, calm and solid, the way truth often is.
Jessica was the first one to snap.
“This is ridiculous,” she said sharply, clutching the baby tighter. “Franco, say something!”
Franco finally found his voice.
“You’re a fraud,” he said hoarsely.
But even he didn’t sound convinced.
Daniel tilted his head slightly.
“Then call the police,” he replied.
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Because everyone in that room understood something very simple.
If Daniel really was a fraud…
Franco would have called security already.
But he hadn’t.
And that silence was louder than any confession.
PART 3
The federal investigator stepped forward again.
“Mr. Montemayor,” he said calmly, “we’re not here to debate identities.”
He tapped the thick folder on the table.
“We’re here because of what’s inside this.”
Franco swallowed.
Hard.
Daniel opened the folder slowly, deliberately, like a man unveiling a weapon he had waited years to use.
Inside were photographs.
Old ones.
New ones.
Medical reports.
Bank transfers.
And property records.
“Twenty-two years ago,” Daniel said to the room, “Franco had me drugged and transported to a property in rural Pennsylvania.”
Gasps echoed across the ballroom.
Jessica’s face went pale.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
Daniel’s eyes didn’t leave Franco.
“I was kept there for eight months.”
The room exploded into whispers.
Franco’s jaw clenched.
“You escaped?” someone asked quietly from the crowd.
Daniel nodded.
“And then I disappeared on purpose,” he said.
“Because I knew if Franco realized I survived… he’d finish the job.”
PART 4
You watched Franco carefully.
For years you had studied every expression on his face.
The charming smile.
The calculating eyes.
The perfectly rehearsed confidence.
But now something else lived there.
Panic.
Real panic.
“You’re insane,” Franco snapped.
But his voice shook.
Daniel simply looked at him.
“Tell them about the warehouse,” he said quietly.
Franco froze.
That one sentence sucked all oxygen out of the room.
You turned slowly.
“Warehouse?” you asked.
Daniel nodded.
“The place Franco had me taken to first.”
He turned toward the investigators.
“You’ll find it under Montemayor Holdings.”
One of the agents scribbled something down.
Franco lunged forward.
“That property burned down years ago!”
Daniel smiled slightly.
“Yes,” he said.
“Right after I escaped.”
The investigators exchanged looks.
PART 5
Jessica finally stepped away from Franco.
It was subtle.
But everyone saw it.
“Franco,” she said quietly, “tell me this isn’t real.”
Franco stared at her.
For the first time, he had no performance ready.
“Jessica,” he said tightly, “this man is manipulating you.”
But she was already backing away.
Because fear had replaced love in her eyes.
And fear is very hard to control.
The baby started crying loudly now.
The sound echoed awkwardly through the ballroom.
The perfect birthday party had turned into a courtroom.
And Franco was standing in the center of it.
PART 6
The investigators stepped closer.
“Mr. Montemayor,” one of them said, “we’re going to need you to come with us.”
Franco laughed.
A sharp, desperate sound.
“You’re arresting me because a ghost showed up at a birthday party?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No,” he said calmly.
“They’re arresting you because of the financial crimes.”
Franco’s head snapped toward him.
“What?”
Daniel tapped the folder.
“I spent twenty years tracing every illegal transfer you made while you thought I was dead.”
Gasps rippled again.
“Tax fraud.”
“Shell companies.”
“Bribes.”
“Forgery.”
Each word landed like a hammer.
Franco’s empire wasn’t collapsing.
It was detonating.
PART 7
You stepped forward.
The entire ballroom went quiet again.
Franco’s eyes found yours.
Hatred burned inside them.
“This is your fault,” he hissed.
You shrugged lightly.
“No,” you said.
“You did this to yourself.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You think any of this gives you back your dignity?”
Your voice stayed calm.
“I never lost it.”
That hit him harder than anything Daniel had said.
Because Franco’s entire life revolved around control.
And he could feel it slipping away.
PART 8
The investigators placed a hand on Franco’s arm.
He jerked away.
“You can’t do this,” he snapped.
The agent raised an eyebrow.
“Actually,” he said calmly, “we can.”
Across the room, Aunt Elena began crying again.
But this time it wasn’t shock.
It was relief.
Daniel squeezed her hand gently.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he whispered.
She shook her head.
“You came back,” she said.
“That’s enough.”
PART 9
Jessica stood frozen beside the cake.
The crown-shaped decoration looked ridiculous now.
She stared at you.
“You ruined everything,” she whispered.
You met her eyes.
“No,” you replied softly.
“I revealed it.”
Jessica looked down at the baby.
For the first time, doubt filled her face.
Because she was realizing something terrifying.
If Franco could poison his brother…
What else was he capable of?
PART 10
Franco was escorted toward the ballroom doors.
The same doors you had walked through earlier.
But this time, every phone in the room was pointed at him.
Recording.
Documenting.
Witnessing the fall of a man who believed he was untouchable.
As he passed you, he stopped.
Just for a moment.
“You’ll regret this,” he whispered.
You smiled faintly.
“No,” you said.
“You will.”
Then he was gone.
Escorted through the marble hallway by federal agents.
His empire trailing behind him like smoke.
PART 11
The ballroom slowly began to breathe again.
People whispered.
Waiters moved awkwardly.
Someone quietly removed the untouched birthday cake.
Daniel turned to you.
For the first time all night, his expression softened.
“You okay?” he asked.
You exhaled slowly.
Years of humiliation.
Pain.
Gaslighting.
Shame.
And suddenly…
none of it owned you anymore.
“I think so,” you said.
Daniel nodded.
“Good,” he said.
“Because this is only the beginning.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
Daniel looked toward the door Franco had been taken through.
“Franco didn’t just commit fraud,” he said quietly.
“He stole the company from our father.”
Your stomach tightened.
“And?”
Daniel met your eyes.
May you like
“And now,” he said,
“We’re taking it back.”
