“You forged her signature,” Garrett said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I did what was necessary to preserve the Bradford legacy,” Vivian said. “Arthur Vance handled the notary. It was seamless. You signed your portion, and I took care of the rest.”

I gripped the leather seat of the SUV so hard my knuckles turned white.

The divorce I had spent five years grieving, the rejection that had fueled my drive to build my own agency—it was all a lie fabricated by the matriarch of the Bradford family.

“You stole my family from me,” Garrett said, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief.

“I saved you,” Vivian hissed. “But you threw it all away anyway. Now, look at us. The stocks are worthless. The banks are calling in the loans.”

“I’m going to the police, Mother,” Garrett said.

A cold, mocking laugh echoed through the speaker.

“The police?” Vivian said. “Don’t be sentimental, Garrett. By the time any investigator looks at those papers, the Bradford name will be history.”

I heard the rustle of paper, followed by the distinctive click of a safe door swinging open.