He Ordered 200 Lashes for Me to Please His Mistress—Five Minutes Later, He Lost Everything

Dad waited at the federal field office. I walked past him without a hug.

"Conference room," I said.

He followed.

Maya closed the door behind us.

On the table sat an eight-million-dollar Saint James transfer bearing Dad's signature.

Dad looked at it once.

"That's mine."

Maya and I both stared at him.

"Explain," I said.

"Arden Capital hired Saint James for legitimate threat assessments three years ago."

"The same contractor used against me?"

"I didn't know that."

"Elena, listen to me. The eight million funded legitimate security work across sixteen portfolio companies. Richard later used the vendor relationship to hide separate orders."

I wanted to believe him.

That was the problem.

Every man who claimed to protect me had hidden something from me.

"You don't trust me," Dad said.

"I trust evidence."

He flinched.

"Good," he said quietly. "I taught you that."

"You also taught me to hide who I was from my husband."

"And I was wrong."

The answer surprised me.

Dad sat across from me.

"I thought secrecy was armor. It became a cage. I thought money could give you options. Instead, it gave me the arrogance to think I could manage danger around you without telling you."

My anger changed shape.

Maya said, "Saint James kept project-level authorization logs. We subpoena them."

"And if they show Dad approved more?"

Dad met my eyes.

"Then you turn me in."

I nodded.

"Good."

My phone rang.

Detective Lewis.

"Elena, Julian made a statement from the hospital."

"Let me guess. I attacked him."

"Worse. He's claiming the two hundred lashes were consensual role-play and that the recording was edited after the fact."