Chapter 3 - The Discovery of Deceit
The stinging on my cheek had faded by Monday morning, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve that pulsed fiercely in my veins. I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my corner office, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. The city was a battlefield, and I was a veteran commander.
I picked up the phone and dialed the direct line of Marcus Vance, the most ruthless and discreet private investigator in New York. If there was a skeleton in someone's closet, Marcus didn't just find it; he brought you the bones.
“Vivien,” Marcus answered, his voice a low gravel. “To what do I owe the pleasure so early in the week? Shouldn’t you be recovering from a wedding hangover?”
“I need a full financial and personal workup on Derek Sterling,” I instructed, ignoring the pleasantries. “He’s an investment banker, supposedly a managing partner at Sterling & Hayes. I want every bank statement, every hidden LLC, every offshore account, and every dirty little secret he’s ever tried to bury. I want it by Wednesday.”
Marcus paused. “That’s your new brother-in-law, Vivien.”
“I’m aware,” I replied coldly. “Dig deep, Marcus. Something tells me the golden boy is entirely plated.”
For the next two days, I buried myself in litigation, letting the fury fuel my billable hours. My father called incessantly, leaving voicemails alternating between commanding rage and manipulative guilt trips. I forwarded them all to my assistant with instructions to delete them unlistened. They believed the slap had broken me, that I had retreated in shame to lick my wounds. They had no idea I was building a guillotine.
On Wednesday afternoon, Marcus walked into my office and dropped a thick, unsealed manila folder onto my desk. His expression was grim.
“You have good instincts, Viv,” Marcus said, taking a seat opposite me. “Derek Sterling is a ghost holding a hand grenade. Sterling & Hayes? It’s practically a shell company. He’s leveraged up to his eyeballs in bad margin calls and toxic crypto investments. The man owes roughly eight million dollars to some very unsavory private equity guys who don't care about court orders.”
I opened the folder, my eyes scanning the heavily redacted financial records and explosive bank statements. “He’s broke.”
“Worse than broke. He’s facing imminent federal indictment for wire fraud if the SEC looks too closely at his latest fund,” Marcus clarified. “He married your sister because he thought the Morrison family was loaded. He’s banking on a massive infusion of cash to pay off his creditors before they break his legs.”
A dark, triumphant smile touched the corners of my mouth. The irony was exquisite. My parents were cash-poor, heavily mortgaged, and utterly dependent on my success to maintain their high-society facade. Derek thought he was marrying into a gold mine, and my family thought they were securing a billionaire. They were two sinking ships desperately trying to anchor to each other.
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And the penthouse—my penthouse—was the life raft Derek needed to liquidate and survive.
“Print copies of everything, Marcus,” I said, closing the folder. “It’s time to host a family gathering.”
