"Why should I? She's a receptionist who got in through connections. She tampered with critical company files, caused a fifty-million-dollar loss, and spread malicious rumors about a colleague." His voice cut through the silence. "That takes some nerve."
Arnold's face drained of color.
"Stacy Pruitt... isn't your daughter?"
With trembling hands, he pulled out the family photo Stacy had shown him.
My father took it, glanced at it once, and tore it to pieces.
"Nice Photoshop work. But my daughter's name isn't Stacy Pruitt."
His gaze shifted to me.
I rose from my seat, smoothed down my blazer, and walked up to the stage to stand beside him.
"Her name is Anita Fox." My father took my hand, his voice resonating through the room. "The sole heir to Fox Group. Three months ago, I sent her to work at the ground level to gain experience—and to test a certain toad who thought he could eat swan meat."
Every last trace of color vanished from Arnold's face.
He looked at me, trembling, his lips quivering:
"Anita, you..."
I smiled faintly, leaned in, and whispered in his ear:
"Arnold, you bet on the wrong horse."