In the restroom, I locked the door and stared at my reflection.
Salad in my hair. Dressing across my collarbone. A faint red mark forming on my cheek where I hit the table.
I should have cried.
Instead, I opened my clutch and checked my phone.
Three missed calls from Mara Chen—my attorney. One message.
“Federal investigator is here. Waiting for your signal.”
I washed my face slowly with cold water. My hands were steady.
For eight months, Daniel and Vivian had been using my name like a shield. They opened a consulting firm under my signature, funneled client funds through it, forged approvals, moved money in the middle of the night. They assumed that because I worked from home as a forensic accountant, I spent my days making spreadsheets and drinking tea.
They forgot what I actually do.
I find hidden money.
The first sign was Daniel’s expensive new watch. Then Vivian’s sudden renovation project. Then a bank statement that arrived at our house by mistake.
After that, I stopped asking questions.
I started collecting answers.
Every invoice. Every fake email. Every transfer. Every message where Vivian called me “the perfect scapegoat” and Daniel replied, “She’ll never understand what she’s signing.”
I understood everything.
