“Westfield came to Adams Software because I personally reached out to their CTO as Emmy Stone and recommended your services as part of my long-term acquisition strategy,” I informed him. “And I know exactly what I’m talking about because I have been auditing the company remotely for the past year as part of my due diligence, including the financial records you thought were only accessible on the local server.”
The color drained from his face. “What are you saying?”
“I know about the $300,000 you embezzled through fake vendor accounts, Garrett. I know about the phantom consulting fees that went directly to your personal offshore account. I know everything.”
He took a threatening step toward me. “You can’t prove any of that.”
“I have transaction records, account numbers, and IP logs showing the falsified entries came from your office computer on days when only you were present in the building.” I held his gaze steadily. “I am not planning to pursue criminal charges, Garrett. That would hurt the company during the transition. But don’t test me.”
“You—” he whispered, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You would destroy your own brother.”
“I would hold accountable a thief who happens to be related to me,” I corrected him. “There is a difference.”
We stood in tense silence until he finally turned away.
“This is not over,” he warned, yanking open the door.
“Actually, it is,” I said to his retreating back. “You just don’t realize it yet.”
I had barely closed the door when another knock came. This time it was Megan, her makeup freshly touched up despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.
“So, you were like a secret millionaire,” she said without preamble, entering my room and immediately sitting on my bed. “That is actually kind of badass.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at her rapid pivot. “Is that what you’re going with five minutes ago? You were crying about losing your heiress status.”
She shrugged, examining her manicure. “I’m adaptable. It is essential for influencer longevity.”
She looked up with sudden calculation in her eyes. “Just think of the content we could create together. My sister, the tech mogul. My followers would eat that up.”
“Is that why you’re here, Megan? To propose a business collaboration?”
“More like a mutual arrangement,” she said, smoothing her dress. “You need a media presence for your company that humanizes you. And I need an authentic connection to actual business success instead of just looking pretty with products.”
The nakedly transactional nature of her proposal was so typically Megan that I almost admired it.
“And what about actually working for the company? Learning the business? Contributing something beyond your Instagram aesthetic?”
She wrinkled her nose. “God, no. Coding is boring and business meetings make me want to die. But I could be like the brand ambassador, the face of the company for the lifestyle market.”
“The face of an enterprise software integration platform for the lifestyle market,” I repeated slowly. “Do you hear yourself?”
Megan stood, straightening her shoulders. “Fine. Mock me like everyone else in this family. But my social media skills are actually valuable in today’s market whether you respect them or not. I have built my own brand from nothing just like you did.”
The parallel had never occurred to me before, and I found myself momentarily speechless. There was a strange kind of truth to it, though our methods and values diverged dramatically.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally. “But not tonight.”
She nodded, apparently satisfied with even this small concession. “Just so you know, I have already posted about a major family business shake-up without specifics. My engagement is through the roof.”
After she left, I sat at my old desk, powering up my laptop to check on the final details for tomorrow’s announcement. A gentle knock interrupted me again.
“Come in,” I called, expecting perhaps Maria with tea or one of the household staff.
Instead, Mom entered, looking surprisingly sober given the amount of wine she had consumed at dinner. She had changed from her dinner dress into a cashmere sweater and slacks, her armor of Boston society wife temporarily set aside.
“Your father has locked himself in his study with a bottle of scotch and the company bylaws,” she said, settling into the window seat where she used to sit and read me stories as a child. “He is convinced there must be some loophole to stop the sale.”
“There isn’t,” I said simply. “His lawyers already confirmed it.”
She nodded, looking around the room thoughtfully.
“You know, I kept everything exactly as you left it. I always thought you would come back once you got this rebellion out of your system.”
“It was never a rebellion, Mom. It was a career, a life.”
“Two hundred million,” she mused, shaking her head slightly. “My little girl built a company worth $200 million in secret while we all thought you were struggling.”