The Last Place
My parents looked me dead in the eye, their expressions devoid of any warmth, and delivered the sentence that would ultimately sign their financial death warrant. “Your sister’s family always comes first,” my father said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register he used to command the dinner table. “You are always last.”
Across the table, my sister Kesha smirked, swirling the glass of 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon I had just poured for her—a bottle that cost $300, more than she had earned in the last three months combined.
I felt the air leave the room.
It wasn’t just a statement; it was a policy. A declaration of my worth in the family ledger, written in permanent ink.
I simply adjusted the lapel of my Italian blazer, fighting the tremor in my hands, and answered with two words that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. “Good to know.”
Then, I pulled out my phone and quietly initiated the separation of my capital from their existence.
Ten minutes later, when the lights flickered and died, and their credit cards declined in a synchronized symphony of failure, they would realize a fundamental truth of economics: when you bite the hand that feeds you, you shouldn’t be surprised when you starve.
The Balance Sheet of Love
My name is Sophia Sterling. At thirty-two, I am a forensic auditor for Fortune 500 companies, specializing in corporate fraud detection and asset recovery. My job is to hunt financial predators, trace hidden assets through labyrinthine corporate structures, and expose the rot within empires that look pristine from the outside.
I am ruthless, efficient, and highly paid.
The partners at my firm say I have an almost supernatural ability to see patterns in chaos, to follow money trails that others can’t even detect. I’ve recovered over $400 million in stolen assets in the past five years alone.
My success rate in court is 94%. Defense attorneys hate me.
Prosecutors send me Christmas cards.
But to my family in Chicago, I was just Sophia the ATM. The one with the deep pockets and the shallow need for love. For a decade, I had purchased their affection—paying their mortgages, their insurance premiums, their car notes, their debts.
I’d covered Kesha’s wedding, my father’s business loans, my mother’s medical bills.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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