Chapter 3 - The Declaration of War
I didn't waste a single second.
I strapped on my heavy medical brace, grabbed my crutches, and hailed a private car service to take me directly to downtown Los Angeles.
I didn't go to a doctor first. I went to the top floor of a towering glass skyscraper.
I limped into the opulent lobby of Sterling & Vance, one of the most expensive, ruthless corporate law firms on the West Coast.
The receptionist eyed my battered military jacket, my combat boots, and my crutches with obvious disdain, but my cold stare made her reach for the phone.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting across from Arthur Sterling, a silver-haired shark of an attorney in a five-thousand-dollar suit.
He glanced at my worn clothes, his expression skeptical, and then looked down at the winning lottery ticket I had calmly placed across his mahogany desk.
He verified the numbers on his own terminal. His eyebrows crept upward.
“I want the prize collected anonymously through a blind trust,” I said, my voice steady and commanding. “I want to remain completely invisible.”
“That can be arranged easily, Ms. Vance,” he said, leaning back in his leather chair. “And what else?”
“I want a comprehensive, aggressive, and entirely legal forensic investigation into my parents’ finances.”
His gaze became sharp, suddenly looking at me not as a charity case, but as a serious client.
“Your parents? Richard and Evelyn Vance?” he asked, tapping a gold pen against his desk. “Do you understand exactly what you’re requesting, Emily?”
I leaned closer, ignoring the throbbing in my knee.
“It means war.”
He examined me carefully, searching my face for any sign of hesitation or bluffing.
“Against your own family? Forensic accounting at this level leaves no stone unturned. If they have skeletons, we will drag them into the daylight.”
I pictured Madison laughing on the phone as I begged for assistance.
I remembered my mother sipping champagne while accusing me of being dramatic about a life-altering injury.
I remembered my father deciding that saving my leg wasn’t worth a fraction of the cost of a luxury boat.
Then, piercing through all that anger, I pictured Jake in my doorway, selling Grandpa’s beloved tools with tears filling his eyes.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Keep digging until you uncover everything. I want every bank account, every offshore shell company, every hidden asset laid bare.”
The attorney smiled—a cold, predatory smile.
He slowly pulled open a fresh file folder and wrote my name on the tab.
“I will authorize my team immediately. But first, let’s get you to a private surgeon. My firm has specialists on retainer.”
Three days later, I woke up in a luxurious private recovery suite.
The surgery had been a complete success. My leg was saved.
But the real operation was just beginning.
A week after my surgery, Sterling called me to his office.
When I arrived, he didn't look triumphant. He looked deeply unsettled.
Then his phone rang.
He listened for three seconds, nodded, and hung up.
May you like
His face changed, draining of its usual arrogant color.
“Emily,” he said in a low, serious voice, “you need to hear this. We didn't just find tax evasion. We found a ghost.”
