Chapter 1
On Easter, my parents refused to pay $5,000 to save my leg from amp:utation, but somehow they had no problem spending $150k on a luxury yacht for my sister. “Stop k!lling the mood of our party!” my sister yelled while champagne corks popped in the background. A few hours later, my little brother arrived at my door. “I sold Grandpa’s vintage tools,” he cried, handing me $840 and a cheap lottery ticket. He only wanted one miracle to save my leg. He had absolutely no idea what was coming next…
I was still wearing my combat fatigues, trapped in a sterile military clinic with my swollen knee pulsing in pain, when my father more or less told me my leg was not worth five thousand dollars.
Over the phone, I could hear the bright clink of crystal glasses and my mother asking for more Bollinger. “We just closed on the new yacht today, sweetheart,” he said, speaking over the cheerful noise of their party. “This is really terrible timing. You’re young. You’ll find a way to adapt to a desk job.”
My sister cut in with a laugh. “Can’t you just take Motrin from the medics? You’re completely ruining the yacht christening!”
The doctor had not been vague with me. Either I got private surgery by Thursday, or I could spend the rest of my life walking with a permanent limp. But for my parents, protecting their glamorous image mattered more than protecting their daughter’s future.
I hung up the phone and sat there in silence, feeling more alone than I had ever felt.
Two days later, my brother showed up. He was a mechanic, barely surviving on minimum wage, saving every dollar for the garage he dreamed of owning someday. While my parents were popping champagne, he had pawned the 1968 vintage Snap-on tool set our grandfather left him—the one thing he had been holding onto for his future.
He pressed $840 into my palm, then added a crumpled lottery ticket he had bought with the spare change.
“Maybe fate owes us a miracle, Emily,” he whispered.
As it turned out, fate had a cruel, beautiful, impossible sense of timing.
That cheap little ticket matched every number.
$2.4 million.
I did not cry.
I did not celebrate.
I did not call my parents.
I put on my brace, grabbed my crutches, and went straight to the most feared corporate law firm in the financial district.
The attorney studied my worn clothes, my heavy leg brace, and the crutches beside me with polite skepticism. Then I placed the winning lottery ticket on his polished mahogany desk.
“I want everything shielded through an anonymous structure,” I said, my voice as cold as steel. “And I want a full forensic investigation into my parents’ finances. I want to know exactly how much bl00d is running through their empire.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“You realize, Emily, that if we go this deep, this is essentially a declaration of war against your own family?”
I lowered my eyes to my reconstructed knee. I thought about the champagne. I thought about my sister laughing. I thought about my brother selling Grandpa’s tools just so I might walk again.
“I know,” I said, meeting his shark-like stare. “Start digging. And don’t stop until you find the bottom.”
