Chapter 3: The Architecture of Deception
The arrest was only the beginning. As Harrison was hauled away in cuffs, the FBI began the grueling task of cataloging every piece of furniture, every painting, and every ledger in the house. The gala attendees, Charleston’s elite, didn't stay for the appetizers. They vanished like ghosts, terrified of being linked to the Sterling family's rot.
In the aftermath, I retreated to a safe house Mr. Thorne had prepared. For years, I had been the "housewife," a role Victoria insisted I play to maintain the illusion of their perfection. But while they thought I was arranging flower centerpieces, I was tracking the irregularities in the accounts Harrison had left wide open, thinking I was too "simple" to understand the numbers.
I had spent my final year of marriage documenting the shell companies Harrison used to hide the money. The mahogany armchairs on the lawn weren't just furniture; they were assets bought with stolen capital, now seized as evidence. The house itself, the "historic estate," was actually mortgaged to the hilt, used as collateral for loans he had no intention of paying back.
