I escaped through the fire exit and drove straight to the estate on the outskirts of the city. I knew the security code—Matthew used the same date for everything.
Inside, the mansion felt cold and oppressive. In the west wing library, I found the hidden lever. Stone stairs descended into darkness.
“Evan?” I whispered.
“Julian?” a weak voice answered.
He was alive—thin, pale, but breathing. He’d been forced to launder illegal accounts for years. They kept him because he was brilliant.
Then a voice echoed behind us.
“You’re not leaving.”
Matthew stood on the stairs with a gun, panic twisting his face.
“It’s over,” I said, holding up the deeds and my phone. “I’m livestreaming. And the mansion is legally mine.”
Sirens wailed outside. Viewers had called the police.
Matthew collapsed to his knees—the same way he’d forced me hours earlier.
Weeks later, justice caught up. Matthew Aldridge was convicted of kidnapping, extortion, and fraud. His assets were seized. The mansion and land were returned to us—the rightful owners.
Now, as my hair grows back, I feel no shame. That night, I lost my dignity in public—but I reclaimed my family and the truth.