“Yes,” I whispered.
Marcus leaned back, eyes hard. “That changes the tone,” he said. “Financial crimes are one thing. But this—this shows intent. This shows cruelty.”
My father stared at the open drawer, at the folders with his name on them, at the signatures he hadn’t signed. His face looked older than I’d ever seen it.
“She’s been stealing,” he said, voice hollow. “Right in front of me.”
I folded my mother’s letter carefully and slid it into my purse, like I was putting away a blade.
“Dad,” I said, steady now, “Victoria likes stages. She likes being admired. She likes being seen as the perfect wife, the perfect philanthropist.”
Marcus’s eyes flicked to me. “Bonnie,” he warned gently, “we do this by the book.”
“I know,” I said. “But the book doesn’t say we have to do it quietly.”
Patricia studied me, then nodded once. “Public exposure can prevent her from controlling the narrative,” she said. “If she’s allowed to frame this as a ‘family dispute,’ she’ll survive socially. If it becomes documented fraud, she won’t.”
My father swallowed. “She’s being honored next month,” he said faintly. “At the Bar Association gala. Philanthropist of the year.”