“That car,” he said suddenly, almost curious. “The Mustang… is it really a ’65?”
A genuine smile tugged at me.
“Yeah,” I said.
He shook his head, baffled. “I never knew you were into cars.”
“There’s a lot you never knew,” I replied gently.
He left, and I was alone again in my quiet victory.
Miranda called later with brisk satisfaction.
“The inquiry is moving fast,” she said. “The judge isn’t messing around. Your parents may face sanctions. And Arthur Vance—bar association review. His role doesn’t look good.”
Justice wasn’t thrilling. It was procedural. Cold.
It brought me no gloating. Just finality.
Then Miranda added, “One more thing. A reporter from the Chronicle got wind of the case. The ‘archivist with a hidden fortune’ angle is irresistible. She wants to talk to you.”
My stomach tightened. Publicity was my nightmare.
But Miranda was right. My parents’ narrative could linger unless I replaced it with my own.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
The interview took place at the Historical Society. The reporter—Khloe—was sharp but respectful. She asked about my work first, and I showed her the archives, the magic of holding a letter written two hundred years ago. I explained why preserving ordinary lives matters.
Eventually, she asked about the court.
“The documents mention a remarkable personal collection that seems… at odds with the image of someone who needs protection.”
I breathed in slowly.
“The collection wasn’t an investment strategy,” I said. “It’s parallel to my work. It’s about preserving fragments of history that spoke to me. The value is a byproduct of care and time.”
I paused, then said what I’d never said out loud in public.
“My parents see the world in status and transactions. They assumed if something is valuable, it must be managed their way. If it’s personal to me, it must be trivial.”
Khloe’s eyes softened. She wrote quickly.
“And what’s next for you?”
I looked around the quiet room full of shelves, centuries of stories behind glass.
“The same as before,” I said. “My work. My home. My life. Maybe with a little less noise.”
The article came out the following week.
It didn’t paint me as a victim. It painted me as a dedicated professional, a disciplined adult, and framed the hearing as what it was: a brutal clash between control and autonomy.
My truth was now public record too.
Then the ripples kept moving.
A woman named Laura messaged me on a professional networking site.
Her aunt, Eleanor Vance, had been Arthur Vance’s secretary for twenty years. Eleanor had “things I should know” about my father’s firm and their practices. She was willing to speak.
Miranda advised caution.
We met in a quiet tea shop. Eleanor was in her late sixties, sharp-eyed, no-nonsense. She didn’t waste time.
“Two months before they filed the petition,” she said, voice low, “I walked paperwork into Arthur’s office. The door was ajar. I heard your father say, ‘There has to be something we can leverage. She’s always been the weak link emotionally. We can frame it as concern.’”
My stomach turned.
Eleanor continued, eyes steady.
“Arthur said, ‘It’s risky, Robert. If she fights—’ And your father cut him off. He said, ‘She won’t fight. She never fights. She’ll fold.’”
Eleanor took a sip of tea.
“And Arthur said, ‘Once we have conservatorship, we can quietly liquidate. It’ll be enough to settle the suit and refinance everything.’”
The words hung between us, ugly and precise.
So it was true.
Not just suspicion. Not just inference.
A plan.
I thanked Eleanor, throat tight. She’d already given a statement to investigators, but she wanted me to hear it.
“You weren’t misunderstood,” she said softly. “You were targeted.”
Around the same time, Asher called again, voice strained.
He’d been digging into his own finances. He’d signed things Dad told him to sign. Loans. Co-signs. He’d never looked closely.
“I’m in trouble,” he admitted. “Not like them, but… it’s a mess.”
Then his voice cracked into something I’d never heard from him before.
“How did you learn to do all this?” he asked. “To manage everything alone?”
I surprised myself by answering gently.
“It starts with looking at the numbers,” I said. “All of them. Even the scary ones. You write everything down. You stop signing what you don’t understand. You build a plan.”
We talked for an hour. I gave him names of reputable advisers. Tools. Steps.
I didn’t solve his problems. I handed him a map.
At the end, he was quiet.
“Thank you, Aloan,” he said, and it sounded real. “And… I’m sorry for everything.”
It wasn’t a dramatic reconciliation.
But it was a bridge.
And then, when the external storms quieted, I faced the deepest ripple of all: grief.
Not for the parents I had.
For the parents I never did.
The ones who would’ve been proud of my work. Who would’ve sat on my couch and asked about the diaries. Who would’ve wanted a ride in the Mustang. Who would’ve seen my quiet life as a triumph, not a failure.
I cried in my apartment for that phantom family until the grief felt clean.
Not empty.
Free.
A few months later, on a rainy Thursday evening, my building buzzer cut through the quiet.
I frowned. I wasn’t expecting anyone.
I pressed the intercom.
“Yes?”
A pause.
Then a thin voice, strained and familiar.
“Aloan… it’s your mother.”
The words didn’t compute.
My mother at my building, in the rain.
Every boundary in me screamed no.
But curiosity—cold and controlled—won.
“Five minutes,” I said flatly, and buzzed her in.
I unlocked my apartment door but kept it closed until I heard her steps.
Soft knock.
I opened it and saw a ghost of Diana Frost.
Soaked. No makeup. Hair plastered down. Older. Smaller.
She clutched a wet handbag like it was the last thing keeping her from falling apart.
“You’re wet,” I said, because my brain couldn’t find anything else.
“I walked from the bus stop,” she whispered.
The Diana Frost I knew didn’t take buses.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back. “You’re dripping on the hall carpet.”
I gave her a towel. I kept my distance. I didn’t offer the living room—only the kitchen table, neutral ground.
The silence stretched. Rain drummed on the windows.
Finally she spoke, eyes down.
“We sold the house yesterday. Movers come next week. We’re renting in Brookside.”
I nodded. “I heard.”
She flinched as if my knowledge was an accusation.
“Your father… he’s taken it hard,” she said. “He doesn’t leave the study.”
Then she looked up with confusion so profound it was almost childlike.
“Aloan… what happened? How did it go so wrong?”
I stared at her.
She truly didn’t know. Or couldn’t admit knowing.
“You tried to have a court declare me incompetent so you could take my life,” I said calmly. “The court saw through it. That’s what happened.”
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