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My penthouse felt cavernous as I spread documents across the dining table. Security had changed the locks at headquarters within an hour of the will reading, a humiliation that still burned. I had built my identity around Whitmore Industries, and now I was locked out of my own legacy.

Rhys Whitmore’s background appeared immaculate. His birth certificate from Brisbane, his school records from prestigious Australian institutions, and his university degree in business management were all present. But I had spent years studying corporate espionage and competitive intelligence, and I knew how to spot forgeries. The problem was that these documents were not forged. They were real, created and backdated by someone with significant resources and expertise. Rhys existed on paper, had existed for thirty years, but his digital trail was too perfect. He had no embarrassing photos, no youthful social media indiscretions, and no trace of the messy reality that accompanies actual human lives.

Over the next three weeks, I hired three different private investigators. They all returned with the same conclusion that Rhys’s past was airtight. One investigator, a former FBI agent I had used before, pulled me aside after delivering his report.

“Miss Whitmore, whoever created this identity knew what they were doing,” he said, his tone grim. “This level of documentation requires governmental access and serious money. If your father was involved…” He let the implication hang in the air.

Father’s personal study remained untouched in the mansion I had inherited, the only thing Rhys apparently did not want. I spent hours there, searching through decades of correspondence and files. Father kept everything, a habit born from his Depression-era childhood. Somewhere in this organized chaos had to be proof of his scheme.

Three weeks into my search, I attended a board meeting as a minority shareholder. Watching Rhys from across the table felt surreal. He had adapted to the role quickly, speaking confidently about quarterly projections and market strategies. The board members who had known Father, including Richard Hartley, nodded approvingly.

Then Marcus Chen, our chief financial officer, referenced the Singapore expansion Father had initiated in 2019. Rhys nodded and agreed with Marcus’s assessment. The response would have satisfied anyone else in the room. I caught it, though. I saw the briefest flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a microsecond pause before he spoke. Father had opposed the Singapore expansion initially and had only approved it after Chen presented revised projections. Rhys should have known that story. Father would have told his son about such a significant reversal in judgment. That tiny crack in his facade changed everything.

After the meeting, I lingered in the building's coffee shop, positioned where I could watch the executive elevators. Rhys emerged an hour later, pulling at the knot of his tie with a gesture of exhaustion that seemed real. For a moment, he looked lost, like an actor finally off stage.

I returned to the study that night with renewed energy. If Rhys was performing a role, someone had coached him, and that someone was almost certainly my father. I needed to find the script. Father's desk was a massive oak piece, all drawers and compartments. I had searched it before, but always looking for letters or explicit instructions. This time I ran my hands along the interior surfaces, feeling for inconsistencies. My fingers caught on a slight depression beneath the center drawer. I pressed it, and a narrow panel in the desk’s side clicked open. A hidden compartment revealed a single flash drive. My hands trembled as I inserted it into my laptop, sensing I was about to unlock the truth.