More importantly, the sprawling estate we lived in did not belong to him.

The multimillion-dollar investment portfolio did not belong to him. After my late father passed, every single asset—along with the Mercer Family Investment Group—had been locked inside an ironclad, irrevocable trust. A trust controlled entirely, and solely, by me.

Daniel smugly believed that the mountain of paperwork I’d tearfully signed six months earlier had legally transferred the entirety of my generational wealth into his name.

It had not.

The documents he’d bullied, manipulated, and coerced me into signing late one night were meticulous, altered copies. I’d quietly drafted them myself after noticing that crucial pages from the original contracts had mysteriously vanished from his briefcase.

The genuine, legally binding documents were currently sitting safely inside a climate-controlled bank vault downtown.