Chapter 3
The next morning, I went to Attorney Lin's office.
He was an older man with kind eyes and a cautious manner. When he saw me, his expression shifted to something between pity and relief.
"Ms. Dawson, I'm glad you came. Your father prepared this before his passing." He slid a sealed envelope across the desk. "He also left this."
He placed a USB drive beside the envelope.
I opened the envelope first. Inside was a single page — a financial statement showing that the "debts" Ethan claimed to owe had never existed. The creditors were shell companies, all registered under Blackwell Holdings.
Ethan had invented the debt. He'd fabricated a crisis to manipulate my father into working overtime — double shifts, triple shifts — until his heart gave out.
Why?
The answer came when I plugged in the USB drive. Attorney Lin turned his computer screen toward me.
It was a recording — security footage from the hospital, three years ago.
In it, Ethan sat across from a doctor, discussing me.
"Her blood type is a rare match," the doctor explained. "She's the ideal donor for Ms. Ashford. But we're talking about multiple extractions over an extended period. You'd need her full cooperation."
"She'll cooperate," Ethan said calmly. "She's in love with me. I'll marry her. Tell her Claire is my sister. She won't question it."
"And if her health deteriorates?"
Ethan paused. Then he leaned back in his chair. "Claire's life comes first. Whatever it takes."
Whatever it takes.
That included my father.
Attorney Lin watched me carefully. "Ms. Dawson, your father discovered this footage six months before his death. He tried to confront Ethan Blackwell directly, but was threatened with financial ruin. The fabricated debts were leverage to keep him silent."
Dad had known. He'd known for six months, and he couldn't save me. The stress, the overwork, the helplessness — it killed him.
I closed the laptop slowly.
"Ms. Dawson," Attorney Lin said gently, "your father wanted you to have this evidence. He wanted you to protect yourself. And if you choose to fight back, our firm will represent you pro bono."
Fight back.
Could I? I had nothing. No money, no health, no connections. Ethan Blackwell controlled a billion-dollar empire. What could I possibly do?
I looked at Attorney Lin. "Is there anything else?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "One more thing. Your father — he had a life insurance policy. One he purchased in secret, outside of any account Ethan could access."
He slid a document across the table. I looked at the number.
Five million dollars.
Dad had planned for this. Even in death, he'd tried to give me a way out.
I folded the document and placed it in my coat pocket, next to the iron pills and his note.
"Thank you," I said. "I'll be in touch."
I left the office with the USB drive in my hand and a fire building behind my ribs.
I wasn't going to run. Not yet.
That evening, my phone buzzed. I'd turned it back on to contact the attorney, and now Ethan's messages flooded in.
*"Mia, you're being childish."*
*"Sign the settlement. Take the money. Move on."*
*"Claire is asking about the donor. Should I tell her it was you? Would that make you feel better?"*
And then, the last message — sent just an hour ago:
*"Mia, where are you staying? I'm sending someone to bring you home. We should discuss this civilly."*
Home. He called it home.
I typed back slowly, carefully.
*"I'm not coming back, Ethan. And I know everything."*
Three dots appeared immediately. Then stopped. Then appeared again.
Finally: *"What do you think you know?"*
I smiled for the first time in three years. It felt like cracking ice.
He was an older man with kind eyes and a cautious manner. When he saw me, his expression shifted to something between pity and relief.
"Ms. Dawson, I'm glad you came. Your father prepared this before his passing." He slid a sealed envelope across the desk. "He also left this."
He placed a USB drive beside the envelope.
I opened the envelope first. Inside was a single page — a financial statement showing that the "debts" Ethan claimed to owe had never existed. The creditors were shell companies, all registered under Blackwell Holdings.
Ethan had invented the debt. He'd fabricated a crisis to manipulate my father into working overtime — double shifts, triple shifts — until his heart gave out.
Why?
The answer came when I plugged in the USB drive. Attorney Lin turned his computer screen toward me.
It was a recording — security footage from the hospital, three years ago.
In it, Ethan sat across from a doctor, discussing me.
"Her blood type is a rare match," the doctor explained. "She's the ideal donor for Ms. Ashford. But we're talking about multiple extractions over an extended period. You'd need her full cooperation."
"She'll cooperate," Ethan said calmly. "She's in love with me. I'll marry her. Tell her Claire is my sister. She won't question it."
"And if her health deteriorates?"
Ethan paused. Then he leaned back in his chair. "Claire's life comes first. Whatever it takes."
Whatever it takes.
That included my father.
Attorney Lin watched me carefully. "Ms. Dawson, your father discovered this footage six months before his death. He tried to confront Ethan Blackwell directly, but was threatened with financial ruin. The fabricated debts were leverage to keep him silent."
Dad had known. He'd known for six months, and he couldn't save me. The stress, the overwork, the helplessness — it killed him.
I closed the laptop slowly.
"Ms. Dawson," Attorney Lin said gently, "your father wanted you to have this evidence. He wanted you to protect yourself. And if you choose to fight back, our firm will represent you pro bono."
Fight back.
Could I? I had nothing. No money, no health, no connections. Ethan Blackwell controlled a billion-dollar empire. What could I possibly do?
I looked at Attorney Lin. "Is there anything else?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "One more thing. Your father — he had a life insurance policy. One he purchased in secret, outside of any account Ethan could access."
He slid a document across the table. I looked at the number.
Five million dollars.
Dad had planned for this. Even in death, he'd tried to give me a way out.
I folded the document and placed it in my coat pocket, next to the iron pills and his note.
"Thank you," I said. "I'll be in touch."
I left the office with the USB drive in my hand and a fire building behind my ribs.
I wasn't going to run. Not yet.
That evening, my phone buzzed. I'd turned it back on to contact the attorney, and now Ethan's messages flooded in.
*"Mia, you're being childish."*
*"Sign the settlement. Take the money. Move on."*
*"Claire is asking about the donor. Should I tell her it was you? Would that make you feel better?"*
And then, the last message — sent just an hour ago:
*"Mia, where are you staying? I'm sending someone to bring you home. We should discuss this civilly."*
Home. He called it home.
I typed back slowly, carefully.
*"I'm not coming back, Ethan. And I know everything."*
Three dots appeared immediately. Then stopped. Then appeared again.
Finally: *"What do you think you know?"*
I smiled for the first time in three years. It felt like cracking ice.