348 I bought my penthouse with my own money, my own sweat, my own sleepless nights—so when my mother slapped me at my sister’s wedding and hissed, ‘Give it to her, or don’t call yourself family,’ something inside me broke. Then my sister smiled and said, ‘It was always supposed to be mine.’ They thought shame would silence me. They had no idea I was about to uncover something far worse.

While Julian’s legal team pressed forward with the forgery charges, I decided to do some forensic digging of my own. If my father was desperate enough to commit felony forgery to save Carter’s company, there was a deeper rot in Parker Global Consulting than I had originally assumed.

I hired Marcus Vance—a brilliant, relentless private investigator and forensic auditor who specialized in white-collar crime.

Three days later, Marcus walked into my penthouse carrying a thick, unmarked black binder. He set it on the marble counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Olivia," Marcus said, looking at me with a mixture of pity and intense professional focus. "Your father isn't just broke. He's been running a high-level Ponzi scheme within his consulting firm for the last six years."

I paused, my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. "What?"

"Richard hasn't had a legitimate corporate client since 2020," Marcus explained, opening the binder to reveal spreadsheets, offshore account transfers, and fake invoices. "He's been taking 'investment capital' from his wealthy country club friends—promising high-yield returns through commercial development projects—and using new investors' money to pay off old ones."

I stared at the documents in utter shock. "How much?"

"Total liability? Roughly $4.2 million," Marcus said. "And guess who his biggest investor is?"

"Who?"

"Carter Vance's father, Harold Vance," Marcus said with a cold laugh. "Harold gave your father $1.5 million last year to invest. When Harold realized the money was gone, he didn't call the authorities—he leveraged the debt. He forced your father to agree to marry Isabelle to Carter, promising that once Isabelle got her hands on your real estate portfolio, the debt would be wiped clean."

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

The entire wedding... the rush to get married... the pressure to give Isabelle the penthouse... it wasn't just spoiled entitlement.

It was a pre-planned corporate buyout of my life. My father had literally sold my sister to Carter’s family, promising them my assets as the payout to cover his criminal tracks. They had intended to get me to transfer the penthouse, mortgage it to the hilt, and then drain my real estate firm dry.

And when I refused at the wedding, Margaret panicked and slapped me, trying to use shame and public humiliation as a last-ditch effort to force my compliance before the financial house of cards collapsed.

I leaned back against the counter, a cold, dark laughter bubbling up from my chest.

"They didn't just want a gift," I murmured, my eyes burning with fierce, white-hot fury. "They wanted to destroy me to save themselves."

"So," Marcus asked, leaning against the counter. "What’s the play, Olivia? If we hand this binder to the State Attorney, your father goes to federal prison for fifteen years. Carter’s family loses their business, and your mother and sister end up on the street."