Elena's POV
I don't sleep. I spend the whole night in the hotel room, staring at the ceiling, planning.
By the time the sun rises, I'm not the broken woman who ran from Adrian's office. I'm angry. And anger, I'm learning, feels a lot better than sadness.
At 7:45 AM, I walk into Rebecca Chen's law office wearing yesterday's dress and tomorrow's determination. The receptionist looks surprised to see me so early, but she leads me to a conference room where Rebecca waits.
Rebecca Chen is younger than I expected—maybe forty, with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. She stands when I enter and shakes my hand firmly.
"Mrs. Castellano. Thank you for coming so quickly." She gestures to a chair. "I know this must be overwhelming."
"Tell me everything," I say, sitting down. "I want to know exactly what they did."
Rebecca opens a thick folder. "Your mother, Catherine Hart, died when you were eight. She knew your father was easily manipulated and your stepmother Margaret was dangerous. So she created a trust fund that would be released to you at twenty-five. The trust included ten million dollars, a property in Paris, and thirty percent of Hart Industries shares."
My hands clench. "Thirty percent? That's—that's a huge amount."
"It would make you the second-largest shareholder," Rebecca confirms. "Your father owns forty percent. Margaret owns nothing—she married into the company. With your thirty percent, you could control major decisions. Your mother wanted you to have power, Elena. She wanted you protected."
Tears sting my eyes. My mother tried to save me, even after death.
"When you turned twenty-five, Margaret came to our office claiming to be you," Rebecca continues. "She had forged identification and your signature. Our senior partner, who has since retired, didn't verify properly. She gained access to your accounts and has been draining them for three years."
"How much is left?" I whisper.
"About six million. She's been taking a hundred thousand here, two hundred thousand there—amounts small enough not to trigger automatic fraud alerts. But yesterday, she tried to transfer the Paris property to Vivian. That property is worth thirty million dollars. That's when our new senior partner flagged it and called me in to investigate."
I process this slowly. My family stole four million dollars from me. And tried to steal thirty million more.
"What about the shares?" I ask.
Rebecca's smile is sharp. "Those are still in your name. Margaret tried to transfer them, but company shares require board approval. Your father kept delaying the vote, probably worried it would raise questions. Those shares are still legally yours."
Something clicks in my mind. "Hart Industries is struggling financially. I've heard my father complaining about it. Is that why they're stealing from me? Because the company is failing?"
"Partially," Rebecca says. "But there's more. Margaret has been using your money to fund Vivian's lifestyle. Designer clothes, luxury apartments, her fashion business startup costs—all paid with your inheritance."
The rage in my chest burns hotter. Vivian's success, her fame, her perfect life—built with my money.
"I want to press charges," I say. "Against all of them. Margaret, my father, Vivian—everyone who knew."
"We can do that," Rebecca says carefully. "But there's something you should know. If we pursue criminal charges, this becomes public. Very public. Your husband Adrian Castellano is a high-profile CEO. The media will connect your family's theft to your marriage. It could get ugly."
"Good," I say coldly. "Let it get ugly. They deserve ugly."
Rebecca studies me for a moment, then nods with approval. "Alright. First, we freeze all accounts. Then we file for criminal charges and a civil lawsuit to recover the stolen funds. I'll also start proceedings to reclaim the Paris property and secure your company shares."
She slides papers across the table. "Sign here, here, and here."
I sign without hesitation. Each signature feels like taking back a piece of myself.
"This will take a few weeks to process fully," Rebecca says. "In the meantime, I suggest you stay somewhere safe. Your family will react badly when they realize they've been caught."
"I'm staying at the Hampton Hotel," I tell her.
"Good. Keep your location private." Rebecca hands me her card. "Call me anytime, day or night. We're going to make them pay for what they did, Elena."
I leave her office at 9:30 AM, feeling stronger than I have in years. But there's still one more meeting to get through.
Rosewood Café. 10 AM. V.R.
I arrive fifteen minutes early and order coffee I don't drink. My leg bounces nervously under the table. Who is V.R.? How do they know about my designs?
At exactly 10 AM, a man walks through the café door, and my breath catches.
He's tall and striking, with platinum blonde hair and gray eyes that seem to see everything. He's wearing an expensive suit but moves like he's uncomfortable in crowds. When he scans the café, his gaze lands on me and holds.
He walks over to my table. "Elena Hart?"
"Yes," I manage. "Are you V.R.?"
"Vincent Rothwell," he says, extending his hand. "May I sit?"
Vincent Rothwell. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. I shake his hand—his grip is firm but gentle—and he sits across from me.
"You're probably wondering how I know about you," Vincent says quietly.
"That's one of many questions," I reply, trying to sound braver than I feel.
Vincent pulls out a tablet and turns it toward me. On the screen is a fashion website—Vivian Hart's official brand page. "Your stepsister launched her line two years ago. She's been praised as a revolutionary designer."
"I know," I say bitterly. "I've seen her interviews."
"These designs," Vincent says, swiping through images of dresses, "are yours. Aren't they?"
My heart stops. On the screen are dresses I sketched years ago. Designs from my private sketchbooks. Vivian's "original creations" are my stolen dreams.
"How did you know?" I whisper.
"Because I'm very good at finding patterns and inconsistencies," Vincent says. "Vivian's early designs were mediocre at best. Then suddenly, two years ago, her work became brilliant. That kind of talent doesn't appear overnight. So I investigated."
"Why?" I ask. "Why would you investigate Vivian? You don't even know me."
Vincent's expression softens. "I know what it's like to have everything stolen by people you trusted. I couldn't save myself back then. But I can help you now."
There's pain in his voice, old and deep. This isn't just about me. This is personal for him too.
"I have proof," Vincent continues, opening a file on his tablet. "Photos of your original sketches, dated years before Vivian's 'designs' launched. Testimony from your high school art teacher who remembers your work. Even a video of you sketching one of these dresses when you were seventeen."
Tears blur my vision. "You found all this? Why?"
"Because nobody helped me when I needed it," Vincent says simply. "I won't let that happen to someone else if I can prevent it."
I stare at this stranger who's done more for me in one day than my own family did in years.
"What do I do with this proof?" I ask.
Vincent's smile is sharp and dangerous. "We destroy her career. We expose her as a fraud. And we take back everything she stole from you."
My phone buzzes. A text from Adrian: Elena, your father just told me about some lawyer. What's going on? Call me NOW.
They know. Rebecca filed the papers, and now they know I'm fighting back.
I look up at Vincent. "If we do this—if we expose Vivian—my whole family will come after me. Adrian too. They'll try to destroy me."
"Let them try," Vincent says calmly. "Elena, you're not alone anymore. I have resources, connections, and a very good reason to want to see your family exposed for what they are." He leans forward. "But I need to know—are you ready to burn it all down? Because once we start, there's no going back."
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Adrian: We need to talk. You're making a big mistake.
I silence my phone and look Vincent Rothwell in the eyes.
"Burn it all down," I say. "I'm ready."
Vincent's smile is approval and respect. "Good. Then let's start with—"
His phone rings, cutting him off. He glances at the screen and his face goes pale.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
Vincent looks at me, and I see real fear in his eyes for the first time. "Someone just leaked photos to the press. Photos of you leaving my office building this morning."
My stomach drops. "What? I was never at your office—"
"They're Photoshopped," Vincent says grimly, showing me his phone. "But they look real. The headline says: 'Castellano Wife's Secret Affair: Elena Castellano Caught Leaving Mystery Man's Apartment.'"
No. No, no, no.
"Adrian will see this," I whisper. "My father—everyone will see this."
"That's the point," Vincent says, his jaw tight. "Someone's trying to discredit you before you can expose them. If they paint you as a cheating wife, nobody will believe your accusations against Vivian and your family."
My phone explodes with notifications. Calls, texts, social media alerts—everyone's seeing the photos.
"Who would do this?" I ask, but even as I say it, I know.
Vincent's eyes meet mine, and we say the name together:
"Vivian."