Chapter 8 - The Celebration

I spent the next three days completely disconnected from the outside world.

I stayed in my luxurious penthouse apartment, drinking expensive wine and sleeping without nightmares.

The news broke rapidly across the city's legal community.

Julian had been officially disbarred, denied bail, and was facing twenty years in federal prison for embezzlement and wire fraud.

My mother’s house was quickly seized by the bank, and Jasmine was forced to move into a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city.

Every single trap I had set had snapped shut with flawless precision.

On Thursday morning, I finally put on a sharp black suit and prepared to reclaim my empire.

I needed to visit the grand downtown bank to formally transfer full control of my father's trust into my personal accounts.

I walked into the massive marble lobby of the bank, feeling lighter than air.

The bank manager rushed over to greet me personally, bowing his head with deep respect.

"Welcome back, Ms. Hayes. It is a profound pleasure to see you," he said smoothly.

He led me past the long lines of ordinary customers and directly into the highly secure underground vault.

"I need to access my late father's private safe deposit box," I instructed the manager.

"Of course, ma'am. Right this way."

We walked down a long corridor lined with thick steel doors until we reached Box 404.

I handed the manager my solid gold key, and he inserted the master key simultaneously.

The heavy locks clicked, and he pulled the long metal drawer from the wall.

He left me alone in the private viewing room, closing the heavy soundproof door behind him.

I sat at the elegant mahogany table and opened the lid of the metal box.

I expected to find the original stock certificates, the family bearer bonds, and the final transfer deeds.

Instead, the large metal box was completely empty.

There was no money.

There were no stock certificates.

There was absolutely nothing inside except a single, crisp white envelope sitting perfectly in the center.

My heart suddenly skipped a beat, a cold sense of dread creeping up my spine.

I reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the envelope.

It had my name written across the front in thick, black ink.

I recognized the handwriting instantly, and the air completely vanished from my lungs.

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“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

It was my father's distinct, elegant cursive.

But my father had been dead for six years.