They trained me to protect their empire, to wrap their cruelty in encryption, to make their ledgers disappear on command. I learned, quietly, that every “scholarship,” every “medical grant,” every “winter retreat” was just another pipeline feeding children into their profit margins. Mia was never supposed to survive the snow; I was never supposed to see the original files. Yet both things happened, and that was the crack their kingdom couldn’t seal.
I didn’t rage. I audited. I followed the money, mirrored their servers, stitched every falsified death, every forged signature, into a single, undeniable confession. When the gala screens lit up with their own documents, nobody could look away. The FBI only had to walk through the door I’d already kicked open. Now, our living room smells like burnt cocoa and cheap pine, and Mia sleeps without flinching at footsteps in the hall. Their empire is gone. She is not.
