If you really love me, you’re not going to ask how much they need. You’re going to donate, period.”

At six o'clock the following morning, the conference room of *Bennett & Associates Forensic Accounting* in San Bernardino was bathed in the harsh, fluorescent glow of three computer monitors.

My father, David Bennett, sat at the head of the table. He wore his reading glasses pushed down to the bridge of his nose, a worn mug of black coffee cradled in his calloused hands. Across from him, my mother was methodically stamping triplicate copies of banking receipts, her mouth set in a grim, immovable line.

“They were sloppy, sweetie,” my dad said, tapping the glass screen of his laptop with an ink pen. “Trust-fund boys always are. They’ve never had to hide their tracks from anyone who didn't work for their fathers.”

He spun the monitor toward me.

The screen displayed a complex flowchart of financial transactions originating from Brendan’s personal checking account, routing through a shell corporation registered in Delaware under Mason’s name, and terminating in an escrow account managed by a disgraced attorney named Harold Vance.

“Brendan didn't just redirect your studio deposit, Chloe,” my dad explained, his voice low and vibrating with protective fury. “He used his father’s corporate signature authority to transfer eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars of investor capital into that same account to make it look like you were running an unlicensed investment pool.”

“Corporate embezzlement,” Leo whistled from the corner where he was typing furiously on his laptop. “Brendan’s father is the managing director of Vance-Sterling Holdings. If Brendan moved corporate funds without board approval to frame Chloe, he just committed three counts of federal wire fraud.”

“And there’s more,” my mother added, laying a blue-tabbed folder in front of me. “The clinic in La Jolla.”

I looked at her. “What about it?”

“The medical director who authorized your ‘emergency’ blood extraction yesterday morning?” my mother said, her voice shaking with maternal rage. “Dr. Kenneth Julian. He’s Arthur Montgomery’s personal physician. He signed off on the falsified trauma report claiming Brendan was in critical condition. In exchange, Brendan’s private foundation transferred fifty thousand dollars to Julian’s offshore account in the Caymans twenty minutes after you left the building.”

They had bought a medical license just to take a pint of my blood and throw it in the trash.

The sheer depravity of it took my breath away. It wasn't just a cruel joke. It was a coordinated, illegal conspiracy involving high-ranking physicians, corporate executives, and private wealth managers—all centered around ninety-nine childish, vindictive wagers.

“What’s scheme ninety-nine?” Leo asked suddenly, looking up from his screen.

I closed my eyes for a second, picturing the calendar Brendan kept on his office wall.

“Tonight,” I said softly. “The Balboa Grand Hotel. The annual San Diego Philanthropic Society Gala. It’s the biggest event of the year. Brendan told his friends he was going to invite me onto the main stage under the pretense of proposing to me, play a video reel of all ninety-nine pranks on the jumbotron, and then announce his engagement to Scarlett while private security escorted me out into the street.”

The room went dead silent.

My father slowly took off his reading glasses. He laid them on the table, folded his hands, and looked up at me.

“Chloe,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Are you ready to finish this?”

I looked down at the dark, ugly bruise on my arm—the physical receipt of their cruelty.