Chapter 8 - The Falling Cards
Three weeks passed in a blur of intense passion and ruthless financial warfare.
Living with Roman had transitioned from a protective arrangement into a deep, domestic partnership. We worked together by day and shared a bed by night. In his arms, I learned what it felt like to be adored. He bought me roses for no reason, left handwritten notes on my laptop screen, and held me through the quiet middle-of-the-night moments when the residual pain of my past tried to creep back in.
Meanwhile, Miller Development Group was collapsing.
Without my forensic accounts to shield them, the IRS froze all of my father's corporate assets pending a massive federal tax evasion investigation. The Boston property development went into foreclosure, and the private equity lenders began circling Thomas Miller like sharks in bloodied water.
On a cold Tuesday morning, I sat in Roman’s grand conference room, surrounded by our senior legal team, reviewing the final restructuring prospectus for Miller Development.
"They're completely insolvent," Luka reported, sliding a thick ledger across the table to Roman and me. "Their stock crashed eighty percent this morning. Thomas Miller is facing multiple counts of grand larceny and fraud."
I looked at the numbers on the screen. The company my father had valued above his own daughter was worth less than scrap metal.
"What happens to the estate in Connecticut?" I asked quietly.
"It goes to public auction on Friday," Luka replied. "Along with the cars, the artwork, and the land."
I leaned back in my chair, taking a slow breath. A part of me expected to feel sadness or regret, but all I felt was a clean, quiet closure. They had reaped exactly what they had sown.
Roman looked over at me, his eyes softening. He reached under the table, finding my hand and lacing his long fingers through mine.
"Do you want me to buy the house, Sadie?" Roman asked softly, away from the ears of the legal team. "I can purchase the Connecticut estate at auction and tear it down to the ground if you want to erase it."
I looked at him, touched by his terrifying generosity. I smiled, shaking my head.
"No," I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek softly. "Let someone else live there. I already have a home."
Suddenly, the conference room door opened. Roman's executive secretary stepped inside, looking pale.
"Mr. Costa," she said nervously. "There is a woman in the lobby demanding to see Miss Miller. She refuses to leave."
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I frowned. "Who is it?"
"She says her name is Cynthia Miller," the secretary replied. "She says she's your mother."
