A tea. Thanksgiving. It was supposed to be warm, familial, safe. But as my private jet began its descent into the gray, steel-colored sky over Boston, I felt only the cold precision of a predator circling its prey.
My name is Morgan Adams. To the world outside, I am a ghost. To the business world, I am the enigma known as Emmy Stone. But to the people waiting for me in the sprawling colonial mansion in Brookline, I am simply the forgotten middle child—the “disappointment” of the Adams Software dynasty.
“Ms. Stone? We’re wheels down in ten minutes.” My assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom, breaking my concentration.
I looked down at the dossier on my lap. It wasn’t just paperwork; it was an autopsy report of my father’s legacy. Adams Software Solutions. Once a titan, now a sinking ship, weighed down by nepotism and outdated code. My father, Harold Adams, believed he was selling his company to a faceless conglomerate called Everest Holdings for $50 million. He thought he was escaping with his reputation intact.
He had no idea that the “Everest” he was selling to was the daughter he had silenced a decade ago.
The black Bentley I had hired—an indulgence I rarely allowed myself—glided through the familiar streets of Brookline. The lawns were manicured to within an inch of their lives, the houses screaming old money and quiet desperation. When we pulled up to the family estate, nothing had changed. The ivy still clung to the brick like a parasite. The wreath on the door was perfect. It was a beautiful lie.
I stepped out, the chill of November biting through my coat. But beneath my coat, I wore armor: a Chanel dress that cost more than my brother’s car, and a Patek Philippe watch that ticked away the seconds until their world imploded.
Mom opened the door. Diane Adams. She smelled of expensive perfume and the distinct, oaky scent of midday Chardonnay.
“Morgan! You made it,” she exclaimed, her hug loose and airy, like she was afraid to wrinkle her clothes. She pulled back, eyes scanning me. “You look… different. Sharper.”
“California air, Mom,” I said, stepping into the foyer. The crystal chandelier sparkled overhead—the same chandelier I used to sit under, reading coding textbooks while my brother threw parties.
“Your father is in the study,” she whispered, leaning in conspiracy. “He’s been frantic. Big news tonight. He’s selling the business.”
My heart didn’t flutter. It solidified. “Is that so?”
“Yes. To some massive firm. He’s finally cashing out. Go say hello.”
I walked to the study door. The mahogany wood felt cool under my knuckles. I didn’t knock. I turned the handle and pushed.
Dad was there, shouting into a phone, his back to me. “I don’t care what the due diligence says! The deal is signed tomorrow! $50 million is the floor!”
He spun around, startled. “I have to call you back.” He hung up, smoothing his tie. “Morgan. You didn’t knock.”
“The door was unlocked, Dad,” I said, my voice steady. “Good to see you.”
He offered a distracted pat on the shoulder, his eyes already drifting back to his papers. “Glad you could make it. Though I assume you’ll be asking for a loan again? I heard San Francisco is expensive.”
I smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous thing. “Actually, business is booming. I won’t be needing a dime.”
He chuckled, a condescending sound that used to make me shrink. “Sure, sweetheart. Your little apps. Well, enjoy the dinner. It’s going to be a night to remember.”
“Oh, I know,” I replied softly, watching him turn away. “You have no idea.”
Cliffhanger: As I left the study, I saw a notification light up on my phone. It was from my forensic accountant. The subject line read: We found the offshore accounts. It’s worse than we thought.
I retreated to my old bedroom. It was a shrine to a dead girl—debate trophies, MIT pennants, dust. I sat on the twin bed and opened the email. The attachment was a spreadsheet detailing three years of financial bleeding. But it wasn’t just market loss. It was theft.
Garrett Adams. My older brother. The Golden Child.
According to the data, Garrett had been siphoning money through a shell company called “Apex Consulting.” Three hundred thousand dollars in “consulting fees” for a company that didn’t exist.
“Knock knock!”
I slammed the laptop shut just as the door swung open. Megan, my younger sister, breezed in, phone held high, the ring light reflecting in her eyes.
“Hey guys, look who it is! The prodigal sister returns!” She was live-streaming. “Morgan, say hi to the ‘Adams Family’ fanbase!”
“Megan, put the phone down,” I said, standing up.
“Ugh, you’re such a vibe killer,” she pouted, ending the stream but immediately checking her engagement numbers. “You look expensive though. Is that Bottega Veneta?” She pointed at my bag.
“It is.”
“Fake?” she asked innocently.
“As fake as your follower count,” I shot back.
Megan gasped, but before she could retort, Garrett appeared in the doorway. He held a scotch glass, his face flushed. He looked like Dad, but softer, weaker.
“Play nice, girls,” Garrett slurred slightly. “Morgan. Still playing dress-up in the big city?”
“Hello, Garrett. I see you’ve started the celebration early.”
“Celebration? It’s a coronation, little sister,” he grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Dad’s selling. And guess who gets the biggest slice of the trust fund? Finally, I can buy that boat and get out of that damn office.”
“Is that right? I thought you were the VP of Operations. Shouldn’t you be sad to see the family legacy go?”
He laughed. “Legacy? The company is a dinosaur. I’m just cashing out before the meteor hits. The buyers—Everest Holdings? They’re idiots. They didn’t even look at the operational overhead. We’re robbing them blind.”
I felt a cold rage settle in my stomach. “You think they didn’t look?”
“They’re just money guys, Morgan. They see the name ‘Adams’ and think ‘Prestige.’ They don’t know the code is ten years old. They don’t know about…” He stopped himself, glancing at me suspiciously.
“About what, Garrett?” I stepped closer. “The vendor payments to Apex Consulting?”
The color drained from his face instantly. The glass in his hand shook, ice clinking against the crystal. “How… how do you know that name?”
“I read a lot,” I lied smoothly. “It’s amazing what you can find in public records if you know where to look.”
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, trapping us. His jovial demeanor vanished, replaced by the cornered aggression of a bully. “Listen to me, you little brat. You say one word to Dad, and I’ll make sure you’re cut out of the will completely. I run this family.”
Cliffhanger: I looked him dead in the eye, my pulse resting at a calm 60 beats per minute. “Garrett,” I whispered, “by the time dessert is served, you won’t even be running your own life.”
The dining room was a masterpiece of old-world pretension. Sterling silver candelabras, Wedgwood china, and a 25-pound turkey that looked like a magazine cover.
Dad sat at the head, looking like a king on his throne. Mom was to his right, already on her fourth glass of wine. Garrett sat opposite me, sweating through his shirt, his eyes darting nervously in my direction. Megan was busy photographing her salad.
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