At eighteen, my father paid for my twin sister’s expensive university, apartment, laptop and car. He handed me $200 and said there would be no more because she was the better investment. I worked my way through college and built a life without him. Eight years later, his company desperately needed $40 million to survive. He entered the investment meeting, looked toward the person deciding his future—and dropped every folder in his hands.

“I copied your college report because Dad ordered me to,” she said. “He told me the company was mine only if I proved I could be useful.”

“That doesn’t excuse what you did.”

“I know, but the report isn’t the worst thing he took from you.”

Inside the folder were federal contracting forms showing that Sullivan Flooring had received preferential access to millions of dollars in government projects. The company had qualified by claiming that fifty-one percent of its ownership belonged to two women.

Brooke held twenty-six percent.

The remaining twenty-five percent had been registered in my name shortly after my eighteenth birthday, supported by documents carrying a signature I had never written.

Dad had publicly called me a worthless investment while secretly using my identity to make his company more valuable.

If those documents were false, Sullivan Flooring was not merely approaching bankruptcy. My father had built its most profitable contracts on federal fraud—and he had placed my name at the center of it.