Chapter 3 - The Architect's Mistake
I stared at Monica, the initial shock dissolving into a cold, precise anger that felt entirely different from the humiliation of graduation night. Back then, they had broken my heart over a plate of cold pasta. Now, they had tried to draft me into a federal prison cell to protect their own immaculate social standing.
"Let me get this straight," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Dad committed federal fraud, hid behind my identity while telling everyone I was a useless disappointment, and now that the FBI is knocking on his door, he wants me to step forward and take the fall?"
"No! No, Jules, that's not what—” Monica started, her hands flying up in a desperate gesture of denial.
"That is exactly what you just said," I interrupted, stepping closer to her. "They sent you all the way to Portland—spending days tracking down an invisible person—not because they missed me, not because they felt guilty, but because they needed their human shield to walk back into the firing line."
Monica buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Dad said... Dad said if you cooperated, if you signed a notarized affidavit claiming you ran the shell company independently, he would hire the best defense attorneys in the country to clear your name eventually. He said it would just be a temporary arrangement."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh that made her flinch.
"A temporary arrangement," I repeated. "Just like my dignity was a temporary casualty at graduation? Just like my entire future was something they could rewrite on a napkin while the rest of the family clapped and laughed?"
I walked over to my desk, picked up my phone, and unlocked it. I didn't look at Monica as I scrolled through my files, tapping a secure folder labeled Archives.
"You think they're sorry, Monica?" I asked softly, turning the screen toward her. "Look at this."
On the display was a digital copy of an email thread dated four days ago, forwarded to me by an anonymous corporate auditor I had done contract work for last year—an auditor who happened to be investigating the very real estate firm Dad ran.
Monica wiped her eyes and peered at the screen. Her breath hitched.
It was an exchange between our father and his lead corporate attorney. The subject line read: Daughter's Liability Strategy.
In the body of the email, my father wrote: “Julia was always slow on the uptake, and she disappeared off the grid years ago without a trace. If the feds push, she’s the ideal fall guy. She won't have the resources to fight back, and nobody will miss her.”
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Monica stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth as the cruel reality of the words washed over her. The shock on her face wasn't faked; for the first time, she was seeing the man who raised us without his charismatic, wealthy mask.
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