I ended the call without waiting for a response and immediately dialed another number.
"Jackson. The Tengan Corporation file. It's been handed over to our division, correct?"
"Yes, Chief."
"Emily Simmons recently took on a new protégé. Focus your audit there."
"Understood."
For the next few days, I buried myself in the investigation, ignoring every call from the Whitmore estate. I thought silence would be answer enough, but I underestimated their persistence.
One evening, just as I left the office, a black sedan swerved to the curb, blocking my path.
My father stepped out, looking harried. "Marc, we finally found you. Your mother's waiting at home." He reached for my arm. "Stop this nonsense. You haven't been home in a month. You need to come with me tonight. We're family—there's nothing we can't resolve."
I opened my mouth to refuse, but noticed my superior's car pulling out of the garage behind me. Causing a scene here would only damage my professional reputation.
I swallowed my protest and climbed into the backseat.
The atmosphere inside the Whitmore house was suffocating.
Nathan was already there, playing the dutiful son as he poured tea for my mother. Emily sat at the head of the table, her expression souring the moment I walked in.
"So, you actually decided to show up?" Her voice dripped with disdain.
"If my presence is such a burden, I can leave right now."
I turned to walk out, but my father caught my arm.
"Marc, please," he hissed, before turning a placating look toward his wife.
"What could possibly keep you so busy?" Emily scoffed.
"Work."
"Work?" A mocking smile twisted her lips. "A civil service job you scrounged up yourself, paying a few thousand a month? You think that's worth neglecting your family for?" She sipped her tea without looking at me. "Without my support, what kind of decent job could you possibly find?"
"Support?"
I almost laughed. The word tasted like ash.
"Ms. Simmons, from childhood until this moment, what exactly have you supported me with?"
Her hand froze halfway to the saucer. The room went silent.
"Most mothers, even those with nothing, wouldn't dream of tearing down their own son's achievements," I continued, my voice steady. "But you're different. Even when I stand on my own two feet, you feel the need to kick them out from under me. All your resources, all your care, went to an outsider. When did you ever spare a crumb for me?"
I took a step closer. "Since you never gave me anything, what gives you the right to threaten to take it away?"
"You—!" Emily shot to her feet, face flushing.
Nathan rushed to her side, grabbing my arm with feigned desperation. "Brother! How can you talk to Mom like that? Apologize, right now!"
Emily pressed a hand to her chest, finger trembling as she pointed at me. "Do you see this? This is why I help Nate and not you! He has a heart. You have a stone where yours should be!"
My father patted her shoulder, shooting me a disappointed look. "Marc, I brought you home to make peace, not start a war. Look at Nate—why can't you be sensible like him? Just apologize."
I ripped my arm from Nathan's grip.
"I don't need to be sensible. You have Nathan for that." My voice dropped. "It doesn't matter anyway. You've never treated me like a son."
"How dare you!" Emily shrieked.
"Am I wrong?" I stared straight into her eyes.
Crash.
A teacup shattered at my feet.
"Fine! Go!" she screamed. "Get out! I want to see what you amount to in Ashford City without my name backing you!"
I turned to leave. Nathan reached out as if to stop me, but his hand merely grazed my sleeve—a calculated gesture designed to fail.
"Brother, don't be like this! Just say you're sorry!"
"Nate, let him go!" Emily yelled. "Ungrateful wretch! When he hits a wall and comes crawling back, he'll realize how wrong he was!"
I walked out. The heavy door slammed shut behind me.
Even though I had long since hardened my heart against them, the sting lingered. A tightness constricted my throat, but I refused to let tears fall. I hailed a cab and gave the driver my office address.
Back at the bureau, the silence was a relief.
On my desk sat the file Jackson had compiled. I flipped it open and scanned the financial records. A cold satisfaction settled in my chest as I traced the irregularities.
I tossed the file back onto the desk.
I knew it.
"Nathan Whitmore," I murmured. "You aren't nearly as clean as you pretend to be."
Year-end audit season hit like a guillotine. A fleet of black inspection vehicles screeched to a halt outside Tengan Corporation headquarters.
We didn't waste a second. Straight past security, into the elevators, and up to Nathan's executive suite.
"Investigate me?"
Nathan was lounging in his leather chair when we entered. He heard the team's declaration and sneered, not even bothering to stand.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" He tossed a pen onto his desk. "Who authorized this?"
"I did."
The color drained from his face.
The inspectors split down the middle, clearing a path. I walked through, badge raised.
"Tax Investigation Division, Marcus Whitmore. We have substantial evidence of tax evasion and fraudulent underreporting. You will cooperate immediately."
