"My father dragged me by the hair across a marble ballroom before Atlanta’s 70 wealthiest guests, spitting, “You mean nothing to this family!” My mother smirked, my brother clapped, and one woman recoiled to keep my blood off her shoes. They believed I’d endure the humiliation to preserve the Waverly legacy. But as I lay bleeding, I had already filed a federal dossier exposing their crimes. Their $50 million empire was about to collapse in flames.

The seventy guests watched the destruction of the Waverly family in paralyzed, breathless terror. But their own turn had come.

Agent Vance stepped toward the center of the dais and picked up the wireless microphone that Richard had used earlier to welcome his guests. The high-pitched squeal of feedback commanded immediate, terrified silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Vance announced, his voice devoid of warmth. “Every vehicle parked on this estate has been impounded. The perimeter of this property is under federal martial quarantine. The documents provided by our confidential informant do not merely incriminate the Waverly family. They detail thirty-two separate instances of commercial bribery, market manipulation, and tax evasion involving forty-eight of the individuals currently standing in this room.”

A collective gasp of horror tore through the crowd. Senator Sterling clutched his chest, his face pale and clammy, looking as though he were on the verge of a fatal coronary event.

“Over the next six hours,” Vance continued, “you will be processed one by one. Your personal communication devices will remain in federal custody. Anyone who attempts to delete files, contact legal counsel prior to formal booking, or alter financial ledgers will be charged with felony obstruction of justice under federal statutes. Welcome to Project Terminus.”

One by one, the titans of Atlanta high society were escorted out into the pouring rain, past flashing blue lights and dozens of television news vans that had already gathered at the estate’s iron gates. The press had been tipped off precisely at midnight.

As the senator was marched past me, he dared to meet my gaze. “You destroyed all of us,” he hissed through trembling teeth. “You burned down the entire city’s power structure to get back at your father!”

“No, Senator,” I replied softly. “I simply turned the lights on. You were the ones crawling in the filth.”

Federal agents began clearing the ballroom, rolling up antique Persian rugs, tagging priceless oil paintings for federal auction, and carrying out the heavy bronze safe from my father’s personal study. The magnificent, imposing Waverly mansion was rapidly transforming from an aristocratic palace into a brightly lit crime scene.

Richard was hauled to his feet by two agents. His clothes were ruined, his spirit shattered, and his eyes bloodshot with rage. As they pushed him toward the shattered doorway, he dug his heels into the marble one last time and looked back at me.

“You’ll rot in hell for this!” he screamed, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic screech. “You’re a Waverly! You carry my blood! You’re nothing without my name!”

I walked up to him, stopping mere inches from his contorted face. I reached out and gently plucked the golden signet ring from his bleeding finger—the very ring that had cracked my bone an hour ago.

“I am not a Waverly,” I said, letting the heavy gold ring drop to the floor.

I raised my boot and brought it down with crushing force, grinding the golden family crest into the shattered marble dust beneath my heel.