That evening, after the house had gone quiet, my bedroom door opened with a soft click. Clara slipped inside holding a torn manila envelope against her chest.

“Sir,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “I’m sorry to disturb you. But I found this shoved down in the trash bin in Miss Vanessa’s dressing room.”

I sat up, ignoring the wheelchair parked beside the bed, and took it from her shaking hands.

Inside was everything.

Photocopies of forged medical evaluations describing brain damage I did not have. A fully drafted, unfiled petition for emergency medical guardianship.

And email chains between Vanessa, Daniel, and a senior board member of my company named Pierce, laying out their strategy to declare me mentally incompetent and take the board.