The first document surfaced at 9:17 a.m.
I remember the time because that was when my assistant stopped knocking and simply walked into my office, pale and breathless.
"Madam," she said, holding out her tablet, "the auditors found something."
I took it calmly.
A transfer record.
Dated three years ago.
Signed by my husband.
The amount wasn't large enough to draw attention.
But it was repeated.
Over and over.
Small sums. Carefully spaced. Always routed through shell accounts that didn't exist on paper—until now.
I handed the tablet back and smiled.
"That's only the beginning," I said.
—
By noon, the building felt different.
Doors stayed closed.
Phones rang unanswered.
People whispered like the walls were listening.
The board demanded explanations.
My husband gave them confidence.
Too much of it.
"These are routine transfers," he said smoothly. "All approved. All legal."
He spoke like a man who had rehearsed this lie for years.
My sister supported him instantly.
"She's exaggerating," she added, glancing at me. "You know how emotional she can be."
I didn't react.
Emotion was what they expected.
Instead, I slid a second file across the table.
"Then perhaps you can explain this," I said gently.
A pause.
A flicker of panic.
The file contained something simple.
Email correspondence.
Encrypted.
But not enough.
Approval chains.
Instructions.
Conversations that proved intent.
Silence fell.
A board member cleared his throat. "These emails suggest… deliberate concealment."
My sister's voice trembled. "That's impossible."
I looked at her.
"Paper doesn't lie," I said softly. "People do."
—
The meeting ended abruptly.
No decisions.
No resolutions.
Only fear.
—
That afternoon, my husband confronted me in the hallway.
"You went too far," he hissed, keeping his voice low.
I stepped closer, my tone calm. "You went first."
"You think you've won?" His eyes were wild now. "You don't know how deep this goes."
"I know exactly how deep," I replied. "That's why I'm still standing."
He stared at me like he wanted to shake me.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Too many eyes were watching now.
—
That night, my ally called.
"They're scrambling," he said. "Moving money. Deleting records."
"Too late," I replied.
"They'll try to sacrifice someone."
I smiled.
"Let them."
Because sacrifices always scream.
—
At midnight, my phone buzzed with one last message.
Unknown Number:
Your sister accessed restricted files.
I closed my eyes slowly.
So that was her move.
—