My father grabbed the most prestigious award my university had ever given me and smashed it against the marble floor.

On Monday morning, I walked into the headquarters of Miller & Vance Commercial Real Estate on Peachtree Street.

My ankle was still bandaged, forcing me to wear a flat leather loafer on my left foot while my right foot wore a professional pump, but my posture was straight and uncompromising.

When I reached my cubicle, my boss, Marcus Miller—a sharp, fifty-year-old senior partner with graying temples—was waiting beside my desk holding two thick manila folders.

"Sloan," Marcus said, offering me a warm, respectful nod. "Congratulations on graduating. I saw the university announcement online about your Global Excellence award. Outstanding work."

"Thank you, Marcus," I said, setting my briefcase down.

"I wish I could give you a week off to celebrate," Marcus continued, his face darkening into a serious, professional expression, "but a high-priority file landed on my desk at seven this morning. Vantage Capital has retained our firm to perform an emergency expedited asset valuation on a distressed commercial strip mall in Buckhead."

My stomach dropped. "Peachtree Plaza?"

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You know the property?"

"I'm familiar with the location," I said carefully, maintaining my composure.

"Good," Marcus said, handing me the folders. "Vantage Capital is initiating foreclosure proceedings on the property next week. The owner, Graham Monroe, defaulted on his primary notes. Vantage wants a full, unvarnished appraisal of the land and building value by Thursday afternoon so they can list it at a sheriff's auction."

I took the folders. The paper felt heavy in my hands.

Fate had a dark, hilarious sense of humor. My firm had been assigned to appraise the very property my father had mortgaged to fund my sister's vanity—and I was the primary analyst assigned to the file.

"Is there any conflict of interest, Sloan?" Marcus asked, scanning my face with sharp, analytical eyes. "I know your last name is Monroe, but Atlanta has a hundred Monroes."

I looked at Marcus. I could have recused myself. I could have handed the file back and walked away, letting another appraiser handle the valuation.

Then I remembered my father smashing my crystal trophy across the floor. I remembered my mother calling me selfish while blood soaked through my tights. I remembered Fallon calling my hard-earned navy dress an insurance outfit.

"No conflict, Marcus," I said smoothly, opening the folder and picking up my red pen. "I know the property very well. I'll have the full report on your desk by Wednesday afternoon."

"Excellent," Marcus smiled. "I knew I could count on you."

At 2:00 PM that afternoon, I pulled my sedan into the parking lot of Peachtree Plaza.

The strip mall was a forty-year-old brick structure sitting on a prime half-acre lot near the heart of Buckhead. In its prime, it had housed a thriving bakery, an dry cleaner, and two local boutiques.

Now, it was a ghost town.

Three of the four retail bays were empty, their windows covered in dusty brown paper. The parking asphalt was cracked, weeds pushed through the concrete seams, and a large section of the aluminum roof fascia was hanging loose, rattling in the afternoon wind.

My father had neglected the property for a decade, extracting every dollar of rent to support his lavish lifestyle while performing zero maintenance.

I pulled my digital measuring wheel, clip-board, and camera from the trunk and began my physical inspection.

Ten minutes into my walkthrough, a black Mercedes SUV pulled violently into the parking lot, its tires screeching against the cracked asphalt.

My father stepped out of the driver's side.

He looked unkempt, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie crooked. When he saw me standing near the utility meters with a clipboard, his face contorted in pure, unadulterated shock.

"Sloan?!" he shouted, marching across the parking lot toward me. "What the hell are you doing here?! Are you stalking me now?!"

I didn't flinch. I lowered my camera, clicked the shutter once to record the damaged electric meters, and looked at him.

"I'm doing my job, Mr. Monroe," I stated flatly.

"Your job?" He stopped three feet away, glaring at my clipboard. "What are you talking about?"

"Miller & Vance was retained by Vantage Capital to perform an expedited commercial appraisal of this property," I explained, my voice entirely professional and cold. "I am the senior lead analyst assigned to the file."

My father stared at me, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. The color drained from his face until he looked like a ghost standing in the cold sunlight.

"You..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "You're appraising my building for the lender?"

"Yes," I said. "And so far, I've documented sixteen major code violations, fifty thousand dollars in deferred roof maintenance, and an eighty percent vacancy rate."

"Sloan... please," my father choked out, reaching for my arm with trembling hands. "You can't do this. If you write a low appraisal, Vantage Capital won't give me a restructuring extension! They'll seize the building next week!"