It was built for proof.
And I had proof.
I just wasn’t going to deliver it first.
My attorney, Ms. Kaplan, leaned in slightly. “We’re close,” she murmured.
I nodded once.
Across the aisle, Cameron sat relaxed, smug in a suit that matched my father’s—like he’d inherited fabric as well as entitlement. He’d always wanted the company. He’d always wanted to be the only heir, the only story.
To him, I was an inconvenience that survived too long.
Then my father’s attorney stood and began her performance. She laid out papers like paper could become reality if you arranged it confidently enough.
She held up a thick folder. “These are records,” she announced, “showing Mrs. Thornton was removed from service for misconduct.”
A murmur ran through the gallery. People love official-looking documents. Seals and signatures make lies feel safe.
