Then it hit me.
September 27th. The date my father married Isabella's mother, Vivienne. It was the day Isabella technically became part of the Vance family. The day she legally became Julian's peer in the estate's hierarchy. In the European date format Julian often used for his international accounts, September 27th was 27/09.
2-7-0-9.
I punched the numbers into the glass panel.
A green light flashed. The heavy steel door clicked and swung open.
I let out a shaky breath and reached inside. The safe didn't contain stacks of cash. It contained a thick stack of blue manila folders, a USB drive, and a large sealed brown envelope.
I grabbed the folders first, carrying them out of the closet and dropping them onto the unmade master bed. I flipped open the first folder.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was a comprehensive portfolio of wire transfers. Millions of dollars systematically siphoned from the Vance Pediatric Charity Foundation, routed through offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, and deposited directly into the APEX Consulting LLC holding account. And the authorized signature on every single transfer wasn't Julian’s.
It was my father’s.
I stared at the signatures, my mind spinning. The loops, the aggressive crosses on the 't's. It looked exactly like Arthur Vance's handwriting. But my father would never steal from his own charity. He built it from the ground up to honor my mother when she died of leukemia.
Julian and Isabella had forged his signature. They had been draining the foundation for months before he died.
I opened the large sealed brown envelope. Inside was a legal document printed on thick, heavy stock paper. I pulled it out and read the bold heading.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ARTHUR VANCE - REVISED AND EXECUTED
I scanned the pages rapidly. This was the document Isabella had referred to. The revised will that stripped me of my controlling shares and named Julian as CEO and Isabella as executor. I flipped to the final page to look at the signatures.
My father's signature was at the bottom, perfectly rendered in black ink. Next to it was the signature of a notary, and a witness. The witness signature belonged to Dr. Marcus Thorne.
My father's private concierge doctor. The man who had pronounced him dead and signed the official death certificate stating it was a natural heart attack.
A horrifying realization washed over me, cold and absolute.
Julian and Isabella hadn't just embezzled money. My father had found out. He must have confronted them. That’s why his pocket watch was broken at 11:42 PM. They attacked him. And then they paid off his corrupt, gambling-addicted private doctor to sign a forged will and cover up the murder by claiming it was a natural heart attack at 3:00 AM.
The entire narrative of my life over the past three weeks was a meticulously constructed lie.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clunk echoed through the penthouse.
I froze, the forged will slipping from my trembling fingers onto the bed.
It was the unmistakable sound of the private elevator engaging. Someone was coming up.
Isabella.
I frantically shoved the wire transfer documents and the will back into the brown envelope, my heart pounding so hard it physically hurt my ribs. I grabbed the USB drive and shoved it deep into my pocket, right next to my father’s broken watch.
I had to get out. But the elevator opened directly into the living room, and it was the only way down.
"Julian?" Isabella’s sharp voice echoed through the sprawling living area. "Julian, are you here? The concierge said you authorized someone upstairs."