“Cynthia? Mr. Hughes?” Bryce stammered, standing up so fast his leather chair rolled back into the wall. “What… what is this? I thought we were taking the week off for… for grieving.”
“You don’t get to use our grief as a shield anymore, Bryce,” I said, walking slowly toward him.
My father threw the manila folder onto the center of the mahogany table. It slid across the polished surface, stopping inches from Bryce’s hands.
“Open it,” my father commanded.
Bryce’s hands trembled as he flipped open the folder. As his eyes scanned the bank transfers, the hotel receipts, and the recorded phone calls between him and Jessica, his practiced facade shattered entirely.
“I… I can explain this,” Bryce gasped, looking frantically between us. “Cynthia, Jessica tricked me! Her father forced me into—”
“Your phone fell on the hospital floor, Bryce,” I cut in, my tone icy and calm. “I saw the message. You weren’t tricked. You were enjoying every second of it while our son gasped for air.”
“You think you can destroy me?” Bryce suddenly sneered, his fear twisting into desperate rage. He looked at my father. “If you ruin me, Corbin, I’ll release everything Arthur Vance gave me before he died. The tax audits from 2018. The regulatory bypasses in Asia. You’ll lose the entire company!”
My father didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He simply walked to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city, his back to Bryce.
“Arthur Vance died three years ago, Bryce,” my father said softly. “Do you really think I didn’t know what he took from my desk before he left? I let you keep those files. I wanted to see how far your ambition would carry you.”
My father turned around, his eyes cold and ancient.
“I built this empire for my daughter and my grandson. Now that my grandson is gone… I have nothing left to protect. Burn it all down if you want, Bryce. But you will burn in the fire first.”
PART 5: The Trap
Within forty-eight hours, Bryce was stripped of his position, his company car, and his access to every account bearing the Hughes name. But taking his money wasn’t enough. A man like Bryce could always find another victim, another rich family to bleed dry.
He needed to face the truth publicly.
I called Jessica Vance directly.
When she picked up, her voice was laced with arrogant disdain. “Cynthia? Why are you calling me? Has Bryce not told you it’s over?”
“I know about the money, Jessica,” I said, keeping my voice raw and broken, pretending to be the pathetic, shattered wife. “Bryce transferred two million dollars from my father’s foundation into your account. The police are preparing a warrant right now.”
Silence stretched over the line. Then, I heard the subtle hitch in her breath.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded, dropping her polished act.
