Moja rodzina ominęła mój najważniejszy moment. Ale gdy tylko wycena mojej firmy na 185 milionów dolarów trafiła na pierwsze strony gazet, tata napisał SMS-a: „Rodzinny obiad o 19:00, ważna dyskusja”. Pojawiłem się z…

We fed you.”

“And I appreciated that,” I said calmly.

“But food and shelter are the legal requirements for raising a child, Dad.

They aren’t a loan I have to pay back with interest.”

I leaned forward.

“Now, about those trucks.

They’re currently parked at the depot.

If you want them to move, we need to discuss the terms of my new ownership stake in Sterling Markets.”

Richard stared at me.

The vein in his forehead was throbbing.

“You want equity?”

“I want control,” I said.

“51% controlling interest or the trucks stay parked.”

Hunter jumped up.

“You can’t do that.

This is my company.

Dad promised it to me.”

“Sit down, Hunter,” I said, not even looking at him.

“The adults are talking.”

My father’s eyes flicked to my mother.

She was pale now, wine glass untouched.

It struck me then that the only person at this table who understood consequences was the person they’d trained to swallow them.

Richard looked at his son, then back at me.

He saw the resolve in my eyes.

He saw the cold, hard math.

He knew I wasn’t bluffing.

“Fine,” he gritted out.

“We can discuss a partnership, but 51% is impossible.

We can do 20.”

“It’s not a negotiation,” I said.

“It’s a foreclosure prevention strategy.

But before you answer, you should see the rest of the file.”

I swiped the tablet again.

Because the vendor debt wasn’t the only problem I found.

“Partnership,” I repeated, tasting the absurdity of it.

“You think you’re in a position to offer a partnership?

Dad, you’re not listening.

I didn’t come here to make a deal.

I came here to prevent an indictment.”

Richard blinked, the color draining from his face faster than the wine he had been drinking.

“Indictment.

Don’t be dramatic, Jasmine.

We’re talking about cash flow.”

“We were talking about cash flow five minutes ago,” I corrected him.

“Now we’re talking about felony embezzlement.”

I slid the final document across the table.

It wasn’t a spreadsheet of vendor invoices.

It was a forensic audit of the internal accounts, specifically the accounts that were supposed to be untouchable.

I had my team run a deep dive into the operational expenses, I said, my voice low and steady.

We found a series of interesting withdrawals starting 18 months ago.

Small at first—$5,000 here, $10,000 there—labeled as consulting fees or maintenance overages.

But then they got bigger.

$50,000.

$100,000.

I pointed to a highlighted row near the bottom of the page.

$412,000 removed from the Sterling Markets employee pension fund on August 14th.

The silence in the room wasn’t just heavy.

It was dead.

Richard looked like he had stopped breathing.

Hunter had gone the color of ash.

“That money is protected by federal law, Dad,” I said.

“It belongs to the cashiers who have stood on their feet for 30 years.

It belongs to the butchers and the stock boys, and you took it.”

“It was a loan,” Richard croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

“We were going to put it back as soon as the Sterling Select app launched.”

“You took it to cover Hunter’s debts,” I interrupted.

I looked at my brother, who was now staring fixedly at his congealed steak.

The data on the screen was the only truth in the room.

I traced the wire transfers, Hunter.

They didn’t go to app developers.

They went to a shell company in Nevice that links directly to an online sports book.

You gambled away the retirement savings of 200 employees.

Susan let out a small, strangled sound.

She looked from Richard to Hunter, her eyes wide with a horror that had nothing to do with social standing and everything to do with reality crashing down.

“You stole from them,” she whispered.

“Richard, tell me you didn’t steal from the pension fund.”

“I had to,” Richard snapped, though he didn’t look at her.

“Hunter was in trouble.

These people, they aren’t the kind you owe money to.

I was protecting the family.”

“You weren’t protecting the family,” I said.

“You were protecting a criminal, and in doing so, you became one.”

I leaned back in my chair, watching the arrogance evaporate from their bodies.

The posturing, the buzzwords, the condescension about my clothes—it was all gone.

All that was left were three terrified people sitting in the wreckage of their own choices.

“This isn’t just bad business, Dad.

This is 20 years in federal prison.

It’s RICO charges.

It’s the kind of scandal that doesn’t just bankrupt you, it erases you.”

I tapped the table with my index finger.

The sound was small.

It still made them flinch.

“The only reason the FBI isn’t knocking on your door right now is that I own the debt and I haven’t filed the audit report yet.

I am the only thing standing between you and a cell.”

Susan stared at me, her eyes filling with tears.

But they weren’t tears of remorse for the stolen pensions or the ruined lives.

They were tears of terror for her own comfort.

The realization that her country club membership, her social standing, and her perfect life were about to be incinerated by a federal indictment broke her.

“Jasmine, please,” she sobbed, reaching across the table as if to grab my hand, though she stopped short when she saw the look in my eyes.

“You can’t do this.

We gave you life.

We raised you.

We put food on this table and clothes on your back.

Doesn’t that mean anything?

You owe us.”