Twenty thousand dollars

Twenty thousand dollars.

That was the price of twelve years of friendship.

I stood.

She grabbed my wrist.

“Clarissa, please.”

I looked at her hand until she released me.

“You called me the safe fat friend because you knew I’d get angry.”

Her face crumpled.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re sorry I found out.”

I left.

On the sidewalk, cold air hit my face.

A CTA bus hissed to a stop across the street.

People carried groceries.

A dog barked from an apartment window.

Chicago kept moving.

So did I.

I called an attorney.

Not Dominic’s attorney.

Mine.

“Rebecca,” I said when she answered.

“We need to talk tonight.”

PART 5: I stopped being their target and became their evidence problem

Rebecca Chen had been my roommate during freshman year.

Now she was a federal white-collar defense attorney.

She met me at an all-night diner near River North.

Bad coffee.

Cracked vinyl booth.

Ketchup bottle sticky enough to qualify as biological warfare.

Perfect.

I told her everything.

Rebecca didn’t interrupt once.

Then she said, “Do not touch another questionable entry.”

“I know.”

“Do not delete anything.”

“I know.”

“Do not trust Dominic because he has cheekbones.”

“I wasn’t—”

She stared at me.

“Fine.”

We built a timeline.

Emails.

Access logs.

Samantha’s deleted message screenshot.

David’s instructions.

The original engagement paperwork.

Then Rebecca found the detail that changed everything.

Three approvals supposedly made by me had been entered while I was logged into a client meeting on another floor.

Badge records proved it.

David had used delegated credentials.

Rebecca leaned back.

“He’s not preparing to frame you.”

“What?”

“He already started.”

The next morning, I met Dominic.

“You have two choices,” I said.

He looked almost entertained.

“I enjoy when conversations begin like this.”

“Choice one: you obstruct me, and whatever happens next happens without you.”

His smile disappeared.

“Choice two?”

“You authorize an independent forensic review of every Romano entity I identify.”

He stared at me.

“You understand what that could expose.”

“Yes.”

“People around me could go to prison.”

“If they committed crimes, that’s not an accounting problem.”

Long silence.

Then Dominic surprised me again.

“Do it.”

We brought Rebecca’s firm in.

Quietly.

By Friday, evidence pointed not only toward old Romano operations, but toward David accepting payments to manipulate outside audits.

That afternoon, Special Agent Thomas Kavanaugh contacted Rebecca.

The FBI already had questions.

This time, I didn’t panic.

I sat across from him with my lawyer beside me and a folder in my lap.

Kavanaugh looked skeptical.

“You expect me to believe you discovered all of this accidentally?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I discovered it because somebody underestimated the fat accountant.”

Rebecca coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.

I slid the folder forward.

“And they’re about to regret it.”

PART 6: The gala became a trap, and everybody walked into it

Three weeks later, I wore emerald green to the Chicago Historical Foundation gala.

Not because Dominic liked green.

Because I did.

The Adler Planetarium glittered over Lake Michigan.

Champagne.

Diamonds.

Politicians.

Donors.

People who said “summer in Lake Geneva” like it was a medical necessity.

David arrived at eight-fifteen.

Samantha arrived twelve minutes later.

Neither knew the FBI already had the evidence Rebecca had negotiated into a formal cooperation agreement.

Dominic stood across the room.

Black tuxedo.

Expression unreadable.

He had agreed to turn over internal records tied to his family’s illegal operations.

Not immunity.

Not magic.

Consequences.

Just controlled ones.

David approached me first.

His smile looked stapled on.

“Clarissa. We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Your behavior.”

I almost laughed.

He lowered his voice.

“You became romantically involved with a client. You accessed files outside your authority. The firm is considering termination.”

There it was.

The final push.

I looked over his shoulder.

Two FBI agents stood near the entrance.

Rebecca stood beside them.

Samantha noticed.

Her champagne glass stopped halfway to her mouth.

David followed my eyes.

His face drained.

“What did you do?”

“My job.”

“Clarissa.”

“You forged approvals using my credentials.”

His smile vanished.

“You can’t prove that.”

“Badge logs.”

He stepped closer.

“You ungrateful little—”

“Careful.”

Dominic’s voice came from behind me.

David froze.

Dominic didn’t touch him.

Didn’t need to.

Then Agent Kavanaugh stepped forward.

“David Miller?”

Every conversation within twenty feet seemed to die.

David looked at me.

Not Dominic.

Me.

The cuffs came out.

Samantha backed away.

Rebecca stopped her.

“We’ll need your cooperation too.”

People were staring now.

Donors.

Partners.