Chapter 6 - The Family Dinner Trap
The summons to my parents' house in Hillsborough arrived via certified mail on Friday evening, though my mother had already texted me twelve times calling me a sociopath. Hillsborough was old money territory—wide oak-lined streets, sprawling English Tudor manors hidden behind high hedges, and lawns that looked like they were manicured with surgical scalpels.
When I pulled my rented Honda Civic up the circular gravel driveway of my childhood home, Adam’s black Porsche Cayenne was already parked by the front steps.
My mother opened the door before I could even ring the bell. She was wearing her Sunday cashmere sweater, her face pinched into an expression of profound disappointment that I had known since I was twelve years old.
"What were you thinking, Amy?" she hissed, pulling me inside by the wrist and shutting the heavy oak door behind us. "Your father is in the study having heart palpitations, and Adam has been sitting in the living room looking like a ghost for two hours."
"Hello, Mother," I said, slipping off my wet coat and hanging it neatly on the brass rack. "It's good to see you too."
"Don't give me that smart-mouth attitude," she whispered fiercely. "Vanessa is here as well. We are a family, for goodness' sake! You are trying to destroy your own stepsister’s future over a bruised ego."
"Vanessa is no more my sister than the mailman is," I said, walking past her down the hallway toward the formal living room.
The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the stone hearth and the soft amber glow of antique lamps. Adam sat on the velvet sofa, his head in his hands. Vanessa was standing by the window, staring out into the dark garden with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. My father sat in his leather armchair, looking smaller and older than he had at Christmas.
"Amy," my father said, clearing his throat. "Sit down. Let's talk about this like civilized adults."
"There's nothing to talk about, Dad," I said, remaining standing near the doorway. "The court papers speak for themselves."
Adam looked up, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. The polished, charismatic CEO from the St. Regis stage was completely gone. "Amy, please. Let's be reasonable. We can settle this privately. I’ll transfer five million dollars to your personal account tonight. You can buy whatever you want—a house in Tahoe, a Tesla, a new design firm."
"Five million?" I laughed, shaking my head. "Adam, MeridianLink is valued at over a billion dollars. You offered Vanessa a vice president title and twenty million in stock options before you even bothered to tell me you were sleeping with her."
Vanessa stiffened by the window, turning around with a sharp, defensive glare. "I earned my position, Amy! I spent eighteen months managing institutional PR while you sat at home sketching wireframes that nobody asked for!"
"Is that why your university transcripts show you majored in hospitality management and failed your basic economics courses?" I asked, taking one step into the room. "And is that why your uncle’s shell company in the Caymans was set up three days after you moved into Adam’s downtown condo?"
Adam flinched. He hadn't known I knew about the Cayman shell company. Marcus’s investigators had dug up the bank routing numbers only that morning.
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"How did you—" Adam started, his voice cracking.
"You left your corporate laptop open on the kitchen island, Adam," I said quietly. "For ten years, I trusted you so completely that I didn't even lock my own files. You took my work, rebranded it under Vanessa’s PR team, and thought I would just sit quietly in the third row wearing white silk while you thanked the woman who helped you bury me."
