Chapter 6

I walked to my workstation, picked up my laptop, and opened the financial backend to export my accounting archive.

Ethan's face changed. "What are you doing?"

"Resigning."

"Are you insane?" He stepped forward. "Who's going to run the audit next month? Who handles due diligence?"

"Not my problem."

"You can't just walk out!" He slammed a hand on the laptop. "The entire system access is in your credentials. You walk out now, you're sabotaging the company."

"Sabotaging?" I looked up at him, calm. "The one who's been hollowing out this company isn't me, Ethan. It's your family."

His eyes went sharp.

In that second, I saw it: I was right.

I had managed the company's finances for years. I'd noticed the inconsistencies, but I'd let them go — because I thought we were building something together.

Leo's incidents, expensed to the company. Margaret's car, logged as a corporate transport. Last year, Ethan himself had drawn on a project advance and still hadn't replaced it.

I'd flagged it every time.

Every time he'd pulled me close and said, "Just cover it a little longer, Wren. Once the funding comes in, we'll straighten everything out."

I'd believed him. Again and again.

Until today.

He hadn't been behind on cash flow.

He'd simply known I'd never call it.

Ethan's voice turned quiet and cold. "Don't push me, Wren."

"You pushed first."

I pried his hand off the laptop, one finger at a time.

"And I'm warning you — your brother received those funds, and I've documented it. Your mother's comments in that hospital room are on record. Right now your best move isn't threatening me. It's returning the money and figuring out what to say to the police."

I walked out.

He called after me: "Wren, if you leave right now, don't come back!"

I didn't stop walking.

"The one who'll regret this isn't me."

I spent the next three days going through every financial record I had.

The more I looked, the colder I got.

Sterling Vantage looked solid on paper. Underneath, it was a wreck. Ethan had inflated revenue figures for investors. He'd prebooked contracts that hadn't closed. Most critically — he'd funneled company funds to Leo and Margaret through a series of internal "loans," then tried to shift partial liability onto me using a backdated agreement bearing my signature.

A signature I hadn't given for that document.

I stared at the scan. My handwriting. Perfectly replicated.

Then I remembered.

Two months ago, Ethan had said there were bank documents that needed my signature urgently. I'd been in a hospital corridor with my mother during a scan, distracted and exhausted. He'd asked me to sign several blank pages so he could fill in the details later.

I'd signed and hung up.

He'd been building his exit strategy even then.

I sat at my desk all night without moving.

When dawn came, I called Finn Mercer.

"The loan agreement may carry a forged signature. The company accounts have serious irregularities. I have a full backup."

Silence on the line. Then Finn let out a low whistle.

"Ms. Holloway — it wasn't you who needed Ethan Sterling. It was him who needed you."

"I didn't call for a eulogy."

"Fair." He pulled himself back. "If you want to pursue this — it's not just about recovering the $880,000 anymore. We're talking embezzlement, forgery, financial misrepresentation. If this goes forward, his funding round is dead. So is the company. Are you sure?"

I looked out the window at the brightening sky.

"I'm sure."

I hung up, organized all the evidence by timeline, and copied everything onto two USB drives — one for Finn, one for myself.

Then I went to see my mother.

She was awake, color still pale but stronger than before.

She saw the marks on my knuckles the moment I walked in, and her brow creased immediately.

"What happened to you?"

I sat beside her. "The wedding's off."

She went still.

"Because of Ethan?"

I nodded.

A long silence. Then, quietly: "Was it his family again?"

My throat tightened.

She'd lost so much weight these past months. Just speaking tired her. And still her first worry was me.

I didn't go into detail. I just held her hand. "Mom, I'm not marrying him."

"Good." Her eyes filled slowly. "Wren, the worst mistake I ever made was teaching you that women should expect to suffer a little — that you just endure and get through it. Don't live like I did. Whoever you end up with, the only condition is that you don't let yourself be diminished."

I bowed my head. And for the first time since yesterday morning, I cried.

"Okay."

"And one more thing." She reached up and touched my face, very gently. "Don't sell yourself for anyone."

That quiet sentence opened something inside me I'd been keeping sealed for years.

I hadn't been sold yesterday.

I'd put myself on the table a long time ago.

Because I believed that loving someone meant carrying more, being more accommodating, accepting more suffering.

I was wrong.

Real love doesn't ask you to become smaller.