Chapter 1

For ten years, I was my family' s living scandal. After being framed for a crime that nearly destroyed our company, I was cast as the pariah, forced to serve the very people who had stolen my future.

At my parents' 40th anniversary party, the humiliation reached its peak. My brother, the CEO who built his career on my ruin, stood at the podium.

"Can you not do one simple thing without creating a disaster?" he hissed at me in front of everyone. "For one night, can you just try not to be a complete and utter liability?"

His fiancée, the true architect of my downfall, watched with a triumphant smirk. My mother looked on in horror-not at his cruelty, but at the scene I was causing. My father simply turned away in disappointment.

They had all chosen their sides long ago, and I was not on it.

After a decade of absorbing their contempt for a crime I didn't commit, something inside me finally snapped. The guilt, the shame, the silence-it was all a lie I was no longer willing to live.

But I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I calmly walked out of that ballroom, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I found online.

A gravelly voice answered. "Mccormick."

"My name is Charlotte Gallegos," I said, my voice clearer and stronger than it had been in years. "I need to hire you."

Chapter 1

Charlotte Gallegos POV:

The anniversary party was a masterclass in polite cruelty, and I was the main exhibit. For ten years, I had played my part: the family pariah, the disgraced architect, the living, breathing reminder of a scandal that had almost torn Gallegos Construction apart. My penance, as my older brother Ashton called it, was a lifetime of quiet servitude in the company I was once meant to help lead.

Tonight, my parents' fortieth anniversary, was no different. The grand ballroom of their estate glittered with chandeliers and false smiles. I stood near the back, a ghost in a simple dress, my hands clasped tightly to stop them from shaking.

Ashton, CEO and family savior, stood at the podium. He was handsome, arrogant, and radiated the kind of confidence that came from never having to doubt his own worth. Beside him, his fiancée, Carmella Nichols, glowed. She looked at him with an adoration that was so perfectly practiced it could have been rehearsed for months. To everyone else, she was the sweet, supportive woman who had stood by Ashton and helped him rebuild. To me, she was the architect of my ruin.

"Forty years," Ashton' s voice boomed through the speakers. "A testament to strength, loyalty, and integrity. Values that are the bedrock of this family and of Gallegos Construction."

His eyes, cold and sharp, flicked to me for a fraction of a second. It was a deliberate, pointed glance, a reminder that I was the exception to that rule. The room was warm, but a familiar chill crept over my skin.

Carmella leaned into the microphone after him, her voice a soft, saccharine melody. "And I am so, so blessed to be joining this incredible family. A family that knows the meaning of forgiveness and second chances."

Her eyes met mine, and a tiny, triumphant smile played on her lips before vanishing. It was for me alone. A private little twist of the knife.

Later, as I was trying to discreetly refill a tray of champagne flutes-one of my many unofficial duties-Kash, my youngest brother, sauntered over. He had been a teenager when the scandal broke, and his opinion of me had been shaped entirely by Ashton' s narrative.

"Try not to drop these, Charlotte," he said with a smirk, snatching a glass. "We wouldn't want another expensive mess on our hands, would we?"

His friends snickered. My face burned, but I kept my expression blank. I had learned long ago that any reaction, whether anger or tears, would only feed them. I simply nodded and continued my task.

The final humiliation came during the cake cutting. It was a towering, seven-tiered confection, a testament to my mother' s love for extravagant displays. As the catering staff wheeled it out, one of the wheels caught on the edge of a rug. The entire structure wobbled precariously.

I was the closest. Without thinking, I lunged forward, my hands shooting out to steady the cart. I managed to stop it from toppling, but in the process, my sleeve brushed against the side, smearing a line of pristine white frosting.

A collective gasp went through the room.

It was nothing. A minor imperfection. But in the theater of my family, it was a catastrophe.

Carmella was the first to speak, her voice laced with faux concern. "Oh, Charlotte. It's alright, darling. Accidents happen." She made it sound like I'd pushed it on purpose.

Ashton' s face darkened into a familiar thundercloud. He strode over, his jaw tight. He didn't look at the cake; he looked at me.

"For God's sake, Charlotte," he hissed, his voice low but carrying in the sudden silence. "Can you not do one simple thing without creating a disaster? For one night, can you just try not to be a complete and utter liability?"

The words struck me harder than a physical blow. Liability. Mess. Disaster. The labels they had branded me with for a decade.

My mother looked horrified, not at Ashton' s cruelty, but at the scene I was causing. My father simply turned away, his expression one of weary disappointment. They just wanted peace, even if it was built on the scaffolding of my broken spirit.

Something inside me, a cord I had held taut for ten years, finally snapped. The years of biting my tongue, of absorbing their contempt, of living with a guilt that wasn't mine-it all came rushing to the surface in a silent, suffocating wave.

I looked at Ashton's furious face, at Carmella's plastic sympathy, at my parents' willful blindness. I saw the entire toxic ecosystem that had been slowly poisoning me.

I said nothing.

I simply set the champagne flute I was holding down on a nearby table with a quiet click. I turned, my back straight, and walked out of the ballroom. I didn't run. I walked with a calmness that felt alien and liberating.

I could feel their eyes on my back, a mixture of shock and annoyance. They probably expected me to dissolve into tears in my room, to emerge tomorrow morning with an apology, ready to resume my role.

But as I walked through the cold night air toward the small cottage on the estate where I lived, I wasn't thinking about apologies.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were perfectly steady now. I opened my banking app and looked at the number. It was the last of my secret savings, money I had painstakingly squirreled away over the years from the meager salary they paid me. It wasn't much, but it was mine.

I opened a web browser. I didn't type "therapist" or "new job."

I typed, "Best Private Investigator in the city."

A list of names appeared. One stood out, not for its flashy website, but for its blunt, no-nonsense tagline: "The truth is expensive. Lies are worse."

Emmitt Mccormick.

I pressed the call button. It rang twice before a gravelly, tired voice answered.

"Mccormick."

My heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild bird fighting its cage. For the first time in ten years, it wasn't from fear. It was from a terrifying, exhilarating flicker of hope.

"My name is Charlotte Gallegos," I said, my voice clearer and stronger than it had been in years. "I need to hire you."