Chapter 3 - The Campaign of Lies
Three days later, I was discharged from the hospital in a wheelchair. I couldn't go back to my apartment downtown—the press had somehow caught wind of the story, and local news vans were parked outside my building, hungry for a scandal involving one of Pittsburgh’s older corporate families.
Victoria drove me to a quiet, secure guesthouse on her property in the suburbs.
The moment I turned on my phone, a flood of text messages, voicemails, and social media notifications crashed over the screen.
My mother had gone on a rampage.
She had emailed my entire extended family—my aunts, uncles, cousins, and old family friends—claiming that I had suffered a mental breakdown in the hospital stairwell, attacked Julian in a fit of jealousy, and was now trying to frame him to steal my parents' retirement money.
My phone rang. It was my Aunt Sarah—my mother's sister, the woman who had always been a second mother to me.
I answered it with a shaking hand. "Aunt Sarah?"
"Claire?!" Sarah’s voice blew through the speaker, hysterical and sharp. "What on earth are you doing?! Your mother is in absolute hysterics! She says you had Julian arrested!"
"Aunt Sarah, listen to me," I begged, tears rising. "Julian pushed me down the stairs. I have three broken ribs and a shattered wrist. The hospital has video footage—"
"Video footage can be faked!" Sarah shouted. "Claire, your brother is facing ten years in prison! His life will be ruined! Your father spent his entire life building his reputation in this city, and you are dragging his name through the mud because you're bitter about their estate plan!"
"He stole my identity, Sarah!" I yelled back, the pain in my chest flaring up. "He took out $182,000 in my name!"
"He is your BROTHER!" Sarah screamed back. "Family forgives family! You drop these charges immediately, or as far as this family is concerned, you no longer exist!"
Click.
The line went dead.
I sat in the wheelchair in Victoria’s sunlit living room, holding the phone against my chest as heavy, quiet sobs wracked my body. It was an absolute, suffocating isolation. The people who had wiped my tears when I was a child, who had sat around the Thanksgiving table with me, were completely willing to sacrifice my life, my freedom, and my physical safety to preserve the golden boy’s illusion.
Victoria walked into the room carrying a mug of hot tea. She set it on the side table, sat down, and pulled out her laptop.
"Don't waste your tears on people who only love you when you're convenient to them, Claire," Victoria said quietly. "They want a war? Let's give them one."
She turned the screen toward me.
On the screen was a detailed digital map of Julian’s secondary bank accounts, which Victoria’s forensic team had uncovered overnight.
"Julian didn't just lose that money on a failed restaurant, Claire," Victoria said, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "He was offshore gambling. And your father was helping him launder the proceeds through your mother's charity organization."
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I looked up, wiping my eyes. "What?"
"Your family isn't just cruel, Claire," Victoria smiled grimly. "They're a criminal enterprise. And tomorrow morning, we serve them with the subpoenas."
