90 “My sister threw acid in my face at her wedding—then my mother scrubbed the burns because cameras kept rolling.” As my skin blistered before 250 guests, Fallon smiled and called it a joke. Police later confirmed the glass held a corrosive chemical peel. She wanted content. What she filmed instead became evidence—and I knew how to destroy her....

One year after the wedding in Tarrytown.

I stood on the glass balcony of my new office suite on the 54th floor of a tower overlooking Battery Park and the Manhattan harbor.

On the frosted glass door behind me, gold lettering read: WARD & ASSOCIATES — FORENSIC RISK ANALYSIS & CORPORATE COMPLIANCE.

After the trial, Vanguard-Apex had settled out of court with me for an undisclosed sum of $18.5 million to avoid a public civil trial. I had used part of that capital to launch my own independent risk advisory firm, taking six of Vanguard-Apex’s largest institutional clients with me.

Greer walked into my office, carrying two cups of fresh espresso and a stack of mail.

"The SEC just released their final audit report on the Reynolds Acquisition," Greer said, setting a cup on my desk. "The entire $80 million shortfall was recovered from offshore accounts and returned to institutional investors."

"Good," I said, taking a sip of the coffee.

"And... there's an update on your family," Greer added cautiously, holding up a small newspaper clipping.

I took the clipping.

It was a local news report from upstate New York.

Sibil was living in a small, one-bedroom apartment in Utica, working part-time as a receptionist at a local dry cleaner to meet her court-ordered probation restitution payments. Her Scarsdale social circle was completely gone; she had spent her last remaining savings on legal fees.

Fallon had completed her mandatory hours at the burn center. Without her social media platforms—which had been permanently banned under the terms of her civil settlement—she was working as an assistant manager at a discount shoe store in New Jersey, living in a modest studio apartment, with 25% of her weekly paycheck automatically garnished and deposited into my firm's escrow account.

I looked down at the light pink scar on my cheek in the reflection of the glass window.

It didn't hurt anymore. The skin was smooth, cold, and quiet.

My phone rang on my desk.

It was my lead analyst calling from the trading floor. "Sloan, we have a new institutional client on Line One. The CEO of a major tech firm in Silicon Valley wants us to audit their merger exposure before they go public next month."

"What's their primary concern?" I asked, walking back to my desk.

"They think their board is hiding internal liabilities," my analyst replied. "They want the best risk actuary in New York to find out if the numbers are real."

I sat down in my leather ergonomic chair and pulled up a blank Excel spreadsheet on my triple-monitor display.

I saved the file as: CLIENT_AUDIT_VERIFICATION_01.xlsx.

"Tell them I'll take the account," I said softly, my fingers resting on the keys. "And tell them that if there's a risk hiding in their numbers, I will find it—down to the very last cent."