There she was, in official documents, for the whole of high society to read: not Seraphina of any distinguished family, but Roxana Perez, born in a small Texas town, a high-school dropout who had worked private events under a string of false names.
After a good deal of cosmetic work, she had invented a wealthy pedigree from nothing — bought fake followers by the million, forged documents, and sold herself to Los Angeles as the heiress to an oil fortune.
I stepped to the podium.
“Seraphina convinced Declan that a fictional uncle would invest a billion dollars in his company,” I said, and my voice carried flat and clear.
“In exchange, he handed her unlimited access to corporate credit, bought her jewelry, paid for her travel, gave her an elite membership — and let her sign company documents as an ‘external advisor.'”
Declan’s head snapped toward her.
“You said your family was buying thirty percent of my company!”
“They were!” she cried, her polished voice cracking into something small and Texan.
“They just needed a little more time on the paperwork—”
It would have been almost funny, if a child hadn’t been hurt to make it possible.