If there’s one thing I learned growing up Morrison, it’s this: Thanksgiving at my parents’ estate was never about gratitude.

It was theater.

The dining room alone could’ve been a movie set. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over manicured grounds, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a European palace, the Morrison family crest carved into the crown molding—subtle as a sledgehammer. The table was laid like it always was on holidays: crystal stemware catching the chandelier light, gleaming silver that had to be hand-polished, fresh floral arrangements imported from some exclusive florist whose name my mother dropped like it was an actual friend.

Each place setting probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

Image was the main course.

The turkey and stuffing were just props.

My sister Caroline sat at the head of the table opposite our father, a seating chart that wasn’t accidental. Dad had moved from that spot slowly, ceremonially, over the last three years, until one holiday he just didn’t sit there anymore.

He’d ceded the throne.

Now she sat there with practiced ease, queen of all she surveyed, the very picture of polished success: hair sleek, designer dress, the kind of jewelry that didn’t have logos because people in her circle could recognize the price by the cut.

At thirty-four, she was the CEO of TechVantage Solutions, a software company that had gone public two years ago in a frenzy of tech-press adoration and carefully staged bell-ringing photos. The IPO had turned out well. More than well. The stock had climbed, the analysts had swooned, and TechVantage’s market cap had reached “unicorn” status so fast my mother started telling people Caroline “ran a multibillion-dollar enterprise.”

That was technically true.

And Caroline never let anyone forget it.

She was in mid-lecture when the story really began.

“I’m serious, Emma,” she said, in that particular tone of condescension she reserved especially for me. “At some point, you need to accept that dabbling in the stock market with your little nest egg isn’t the same as real investing. It’s cute, but it’s not serious wealth management.”

I cut another bite of turkey, focused on keeping my face neutral.

Across from her, my brother-in-law Trevor chuckled, swirling his Cabernet like he thought he was in a commercial.

“Caroline’s right,” he said. “I mean, what are you working with, Emma? A hundred grand? Two hundred? That’s nice for a hobby, but it’s not the kind of capital that moves markets.”

My mother dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her linen napkin and smiled that tight society-smile that never quite reached her eyes.

“I think it’s sweet,” she said. “Emma’s always been more modest in her ambitions. Not everyone needs to be a titan of industry.”

I took a slow breath.

“The stuffing is excellent this year,” I said, because sometimes the path of least resistance is the one that keeps the peace.

“Mom, don’t change the subject,” Caroline said. “I’m genuinely trying to help you,” she added, turning back to me, enjoying herself. For extra flair, she’d invited three members of her executive team to Thanksgiving dinner: Marcus, her CFO; Jennifer, her COO; and David, her chief counsel. She loved having an audience—especially an audience that already knew the script.

“I’m trying to be the responsible big sister here, Emma,” she continued. “You’re thirty-one now. You should be thinking seriously about your financial future instead of playing around with index funds or whatever it is you do.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said mildly, cutting my turkey.

“Do you even have a financial adviser?” Marcus asked, his tone making it clear he already knew what I was going to say. “Someone managing your portfolio professionally?”

“I manage it myself,” I said.

There was a half-second of stunned silence—and then the table erupted in polite laughter.

My father shook his head, a fond, patronizing smile on his face like I’d just announced I was going to build a spaceship in my garage.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Caroline said, eyes bright. “Look, I know you’ve never wanted to work in the family business or do anything corporate, and that’s fine. Truly. But managing your own investments without professional guidance is just… it’s irresponsible, Emma. You’re leaving money on the table.”

“Perhaps,” I said, taking a sip of water.

Jennifer leaned forward, seizing the chance to show loyalty.

“Caroline, didn’t you mention that TechVantage has an excellent wealth management division now?” she said. “Maybe Emma could benefit from their services. Family discount, right?”

Caroline’s eyes lit up.

“That’s actually perfect,” she said. “Emma, our wealth management team is top tier. They could probably triple your portfolio in five years with proper strategy. I’ll set up a meeting for you. Consider it an early Christmas present.”

“That’s very generous,” I said, “but I’m comfortable with my current approach.”

“Comfortable staying poor, you mean,” Trevor muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear but soft enough that he could pretend he hadn’t meant it that way.

My father cleared his throat.

“Emma, your sister is trying to help,” he said in his patriarch voice. “The least you could do is consider her offer. Pride is one thing, but financial security is important.”

I met his eyes.

Richard Morrison: sixty-eight, self-made real estate mogul, worth roughly eight hundred million dollars according to the last glossy profile that had been written on him. He’d built Morrison Commercial from nothing, from one small strip mall in the suburbs into a regional empire of office parks and mixed-use developments.

He was exactly the kind of man business magazines love: “visionary,” “tenacious,” “ruthlessly efficient.”

He’d spent my entire life making it clear that Caroline had inherited his business instincts.

And that I had not.

I’d stopped trying to prove otherwise around the same time I finished my MBA.

“I understand, Dad,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thinking about it is great,” Caroline said, her voice dripping with false encouragement. “But you also need to act, Em. That’s always been your problem. You think and think and never actually do anything bold. That’s why you’re still playing with small investments while some of us are actually building wealth.”

Marcus lifted his glass.

“To bold action and real wealth building,” he said. “Caroline’s leadership has taken TechVantage from a four hundred million valuation at IPO to over two point eight billion today. That’s the kind of vision we’re talking about.”

Everyone toasted.

I raised my glass out of politeness but didn’t drink.

The conversation moved on to Caroline’s recent acquisition of a smaller competitor, a deal that had gotten breathless coverage in the tech press. Caroline held court, explaining her strategic vision, while Marcus and Jennifer nodded like bobbleheads and my parents beamed with pride that almost glowed in the chandelier light.

I let their words wash over me, barely listening.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

“Emma, could you please silence that?” my mother said sharply. “We’re having family time.”

“Sorry,” I said, pulling out my phone to switch it off—

—and froze when I saw the screen.

Fifteen missed calls from a number I recognized immediately.

My contact at Goldman Sachs.

Six unread emails flagged urgent.

Three text messages.

Each one marked: URGENT.

“Everything okay?” Caroline asked, lips quirking in exaggerated concern. “Not having a stock market emergency with your little portfolio, are you?”

“Probably just spam,” I said lightly, turning the phone face-down. “Let me just—”

It rang again.

Same number.

“Seriously, Emma?” Caroline said. “This is rude.”

“I apologize,” I said. “Let me just take this and I’ll be right back.”

I stood, ignoring my mother’s disapproving sigh, and walked out into the hallway as I answered.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Morrison,” came the voice on the other end, breathless, urgent. “We’ve been trying to reach you for twenty minutes. This is Daniel from Goldman. We have a situation with your position in TechVantage Solutions.”

I stepped into my father’s study and closed the door behind me.

The noise from the dining room muted, leaving me with the ticking of the antique grandfather clock and the sound of my own pulse.

“What kind of situation?” I asked.

“The sell order you placed last week for your entire position—two hundred fifty million in shares—it executed this morning,” Daniel said. “But there’s been… unusual market activity in the past hour. Someone leaked information about a major shareholder selling, and there’s panic selling across the board. TechVantage stock is down thirty-four percent and falling. We’ve hit multiple circuit breakers. The company’s market cap has lost over nine hundred million in the last ninety minutes.”

I closed my eyes for a brief second.

“What’s the current price?” I asked.

“Thirty-one forty-five and dropping,” he said. “You sold at fifty-four twenty. Ms. Morrison, you just cleared approximately two hundred forty-seven million in profit before the crash.”

He paused.

“But the market is going crazy. Every financial news outlet is trying to identify the major shareholder who dumped their position right before the collapse. Your sister’s company is in freefall.”

“Thank you for the update,” I said, my voice steady. “We’ll talk details tomorrow.”

“There’s more,” he said quickly. “TechVantage just announced they’re suspending trading and calling an emergency board meeting. There are rumors about accounting irregularities. This could get very serious very quickly.”

I turned, leaning one hand on the back of my father’s leather chair. The framed degrees and magazine covers on the walls looked strangely distant.

“I understand,” I said. “Keep me updated on any developments. I’ll need a full report on the transaction for my records.”

“Of course,” he said. “And Ms. Morrison? Congratulations. The timing on this was… extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” I said, and hung up.

I stood in the study for a moment, breathing, letting reality settle like snow in a shaken globe.

I’d known about the accounting problems for six months.

That was why I decided to sell.

What I hadn’t expected was for the information to leak this fast, or this dramatically, on this day.

On any rational level, the smartest thing would have been to slip out the side door, get in my Honda, and disappear, let my family see it on CNBC like everyone else.

Instead, I opened the study door and walked back toward the dining room.

Maybe it was timing.

Maybe it was ten years of being treated like the family idiot.

Maybe it was both.

By the time I got back to my seat, everyone was laughing again.

“…and then the board wanted a full breakdown of synergies, as if I hadn’t already—”

The front door burst open.

Amanda, my sister’s executive assistant, appeared in the doorway of the dining room, a stark contrast to the polished domestic tableau. Her pantsuit was slightly wrinkled. Her hair was frizzed from the wind. Her face was flushed with the kind of panic you don’t fake.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, breathing hard. “But there’s an emergency. Caroline, your phone’s been off and the board has been trying to reach you for the past hour.”

Caroline set down her fork, annoyance flaring.

“What kind of emergency?” she asked. “We’re having dinner.”

“Your major shareholder just sold two hundred fifty million in shares,” Amanda blurted. “The stock is plummeting. Trading has been halted three times due to circuit breakers. We’re down over thirty percent. The board has called an emergency meeting for tonight. The SEC is asking questions. Financial reporters are camped outside the office.”

The color drained from Caroline’s face.

“What?” she said. “That’s impossible. Our major institutional holders are all long-term. None of them would—”

“It wasn’t institutional,” Amanda said, voice shaking. “It was an individual investor. Someone who’s been accumulating shares quietly for years. They dumped everything this morning. The transaction just became public an hour ago, and the market is responding to rumors that they knew about problems with the company.”

Marcus had his phone out now, thumbs flying.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “We were at fifty-four this morning. We’re at twenty-nine fifteen now. We’ve lost over a billion in market cap in under two hours.”

Jennifer was pale.

“Who sold?” she asked. “Which shareholder?”

“We don’t know yet,” Amanda said. “The transaction was done through layers of holding companies. But whoever it is, they owned approximately four point two percent of the company and they sold everything at peak price right before the crash.”

My mother made a small, strangled noise.

David, her chief counsel, was staring at his own phone, his professional mask slipping.

“Caroline,” he said, “we have a bigger problem. Bloomberg is reporting that the SEC has opened an investigation into TechVantage’s accounting practices. There are allegations about revenue recognition irregularities. Did you know about this?”

“I… what? No,” Caroline said. “Our accounting is—”

She stopped.

Her confidence faltered for the first time that evening.

“Marcus,” she said sharply. “You reviewed the quarterly reports. There’s nothing wrong with our accounting, right?”

Marcus’s mouth tightened. He suddenly found his wineglass very interesting.

“There were some aggressive interpretations of revenue recognition standards,” he said. “Nothing illegal, just… optimistic. But if the SEC is looking closely, define ‘aggressive interpretations,’” David cut in, his voice hard now.

Marcus swallowed.

“We may have recognized revenue on some contracts before they were fully executed,” he admitted. “And there were some expense capitalizations that might not withstand strict scrutiny. I told you we were pushing the boundaries, Caroline. I told you six months ago that we should be more conservative.”

My father pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loudly.

“Caroline,” he said, voice heavy. “What is he talking about? What did you do?”

“Nothing illegal,” Caroline insisted, but her voice had risen half an octave and lost half its conviction. “We were just using standard industry practices to maximize reported earnings. Everyone does it. It’s completely normal.”

“Standard practices you’re being investigated for,” Trevor said flatly.

Jennifer was scrolling through her phone, her expression bordering on disbelief.

“Oh God,” she said. “CNBC is running a special report. They’re calling it the TechVantage Collapse. They’re comparing it to other accounting scandals. Caroline, your picture is on national television right now.”

My mother pressed a hand to her chest.

“This is—this is unreal,” she whispered.

Caroline gripped the table edge, knuckles white.

“Who sold the shares?” she demanded. Her panic was already morphing into anger. “Someone knew about the investigation. Someone sold before this became public. That’s illegal. When we find out who it was, we’ll prosecute them for insider trading.”

“It was Emma,” David said quietly.

Silence hit the room like a physical force.

Every head turned toward me.

David was still looking at his screen, but his eyes flicked up.

“I just received an email from our transfer agent,” he said. “The major shareholder who sold is listed under Morrison Investment Holdings LLC. That’s Emma’s holding company. I remember because we had to file when she crossed the five percent ownership threshold three years ago.”

The room swam slightly around the edges.

My father sat down hard.

“That’s not possible,” he said faintly. “Emma doesn’t have that kind of capital. She doesn’t.”

“When did you buy?” Marcus asked, pushing aside his panic for curiosity. His brain did numbers the way mine did. “When did you start accumulating shares?”

“Seven years ago,” I said, my voice calm even though my heart was beating a little faster. “Right after I got my MBA from Wharton. I started with the two million dollar inheritance from Grandmother Morrison. I bought shares in several companies I believed were undervalued. TechVantage was one of them. Back when it was a private company worth about eighty million. I bought in at eight dollars per share through a private placement round.”

“You bought before the IPO,” Jennifer said, almost in awe. “That’s… do you know what that position was worth?”

“Was worth,” I corrected gently. “Yes. I’m aware.”

Caroline found her voice.

“You’ve been—” She stopped, swallowed. “You’ve been a major shareholder in my company for seven years, and you never told me?”

“You never asked,” I said.

She stared.

“You live in a normal apartment,” she blurted out. “You drive a Honda. You dress like—a librarian.”

Her mouth snapped shut, embarrassed.

I almost laughed.

“Like someone who doesn’t need to prove her wealth to feel valuable?” I finished for her. “Yes. I do.”

Trevor, phone still in hand, looked up at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.

“Jesus,” he said. “Emma, are you the Morrison that’s trending on Twitter right now? Financial Twitter is going insane trying to identify the ‘mysterious investor’ who perfectly timed the TechVantage exit. They’re calling you the Oracle of Tech.”

“I’m not an oracle,” I said. “I just do my research.”

“What kind of research?” Marcus asked, leaning forward. Whatever loyalty he felt to Caroline was being gnawed on by professional curiosity. “Our own analysts didn’t catch anything alarming. What did we miss?”

“The kind where you actually read financial statements instead of just glossy summary decks,” I said. “Six months ago, I noticed irregularities in TechVantage’s revenue recognition. The numbers didn’t match industry standards or comparable companies. I dug deeper and found concerning patterns in how expenses were being capitalized instead of expensed. It suggested aggressive accounting that was technically legal but ethically questionable and likely unsustainable.”

I turned to Caroline.

“I tried to tell you,” I said. “Remember last spring, when I asked to talk to you about TechVantage over lunch? You told me you didn’t have time to explain business concepts to someone who ‘played with stocks as a hobby.’”

Her cheeks flushed.

“I made the decision any investor would make when they lose confidence in a company’s financial practices,” I continued. “I sold my position.”

“You destroyed my company,” she snapped. “Your selling triggered a panic that wiped out billions in value.”

“No,” I said. “Your aggressive accounting triggered an SEC investigation that destroyed confidence in your company. The market found out about the investigation and responded accordingly. My sale was a blip until the underlying truth came out.”

“That’s insider trading,” she said, gripping onto the only storyline that made her the victim instead of the protagonist of the disaster. “You had inside information.”

“I had publicly available information,” I said evenly. “Every piece of data I used was in your SEC filings. Anyone with a calculator and a basic understanding of accounting could have done the same analysis. They just didn’t.”

David cleared his throat again.

“Actually, Caroline,” he said, “Emma’s right. If she based her decision solely on public filings and her own analysis, that’s not insider trading. That’s… prudent.”

“She’s my sister,” Caroline said. “She had access to—”

“To what?” I asked. “You’ve excluded me from every business discussion, every family meeting about TechVantage, every conversation about the company. You’ve spent seven years telling me my opinion has no value. Congratulations. You’ve just made it legally impossible to claim I had material non-public information.”

My father rubbed a hand over his face.

“How much are you worth now?” Caroline asked, her voice flat. It wasn’t really a question. It was a dare.

“After selling TechVantage?” I said. “Approximately eight hundred ninety million.”

“Dollars,” she said weakly.

“Yes,” I said.

“More than Dad,” she said.

“Yes.”

She laughed then, a sharp, broken sound.

“And we spent years telling you you didn’t understand ‘real wealth,’” she said. “That you needed our help. That your investments were… cute.”

I didn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say.

“Amanda,” David said, snapping back into crisis mode, “we need to go. The board is waiting, and the SEC is not going to get less interested the longer we sit here.”

Amanda nodded, eyes still wide.

“Ma’am?” she said, touching Caroline’s arm gently. “We really do need to leave.”

Caroline stood, unsteady.

She looked at me one last time.

Beneath the anger, the disbelief, there was something else in her gaze.

Fear.

And maybe, buried deep, a glimmer of respect she couldn’t put words to yet.

“Why?” she asked hoarsely. “Why did you never say anything about … all this? The money. The portfolio. Any of it.”

I shrugged.

“You never asked,” I said. “And I didn’t need your validation. I was busy doing the work.”

They left in a flurry of coats and phones and hushed strategy whispers.

Through the tall windows, I could see news vans pulling up along the circular driveway, logos of every major business network splashed on the sides.

They’d found her.

Of course they had.

I sank back into my chair.

The room looked the same—polished, curated, ridiculous—yet felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under it.

My mother wiped at her eyes.

My father rose and walked stiffly to the sideboard where the crystal decanters lived. He poured himself a measure of scotch larger than I’d ever seen him pour in front of other people and downed half of it in one swallow.

“Emma,” he said, turning back to me. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Why did you let us believe you were… struggling?”

“I never said I was struggling,” I said. “You assumed I was because I live in a modest apartment and drive a reliable car. That’s on you.”

“But why live like that,” he pressed, “if you’re worth nearly a billion dollars?”

“Because I don’t need a mansion to feel successful,” I said. “My apartment suits me. My Honda gets me where I need to go. My idea of wealth isn’t owning a private jet. It’s having enough that I never have to work for someone I don’t respect again. It’s freedom. Not optics.”

He blinked.

My mother exhaled shakily.

“It took us eight years and a financial catastrophe to pay attention to your life,” she said softly. “To see who you actually are.”

“Better late than never,” I said, though I wasn’t sure which part I believed yet.

Trevor cleared his throat.

“What happens now?” he asked quietly. “To Caroline. To TechVantage.”

“That depends on what the SEC finds,” I said. “If the accounting issues are as serious as I think, she’s looking at restatements, fines, maybe criminal charges if they determine there was intent to defraud. The company might survive if they clean house and install proper controls. Or it might not.”

“Can you help her?” my mother asked desperately. “You have money now. You could—”

“Buy back into a company under federal investigation?” I said. “That would be financial suicide. I sold because the company was fundamentally unsound. Throwing money at a broken foundation doesn’t fix it.”

“But she’s your sister,” my mother said. “She’s family.”

“She’s also the one who told me repeatedly to ‘stay in my lane,’” I said, not harshly but firmly. “I’m sorry she’s in this situation. I truly am. But I’m not going to torch my own financial future to save her from the consequences of decisions she made against advice she dismissed.”

My father emptied his glass.

He looked smaller somehow, less the titan of industry and more just a man who’d realized he’d misjudged one of his own children more profoundly than he’d misjudged any market.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “We all do. We underestimated you. We dismissed you. We… we made you feel like you weren’t successful because your success didn’t look the way we expected it to.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Can you forgive us?” he asked.

I thought about Caroline calling me “cute” when I mentioned my investments. About the time my father had laughed when I told him I’d gotten into Wharton. About the way my mother always followed compliments with qualifiers—“You’re doing so well for your… chosen path.”

“Eventually,” I said. “Maybe. But not tonight. Right now, I need some space.”

My mother came around the table and hugged me. It was awkward at first, then less so.

“I’m proud of you,” she said into my hair. “I should have said that years ago. I’m so proud.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “That means something.”

I left through the side door.

My car looked distinctly out of place parked between Trevor’s Mercedes and Marcus’s Porsche.

I unlocked it, slid in, and sat for a moment in the dark, hands on the steering wheel, listening to the muffled sounds of shouting and cameras from the front of the house.

My phone buzzed again.

Goldman.

I sighed and answered.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Morrison,” Daniel said. “Apologies for bothering you again. We’ve received multiple media requests—Bloomberg, CNBC, The Wall Street Journal. They’d like to interview you about your TechVantage exit. They’re calling it one of the most perfectly timed trades of the year.”

“No interviews,” I said. “I’m a private investor. I don’t seek publicity.”

“Understood,” he said, clearly disappointed. “But I should also mention—several venture capital firms and hedge funds have reached out. They’re asking if you’d be interested in managing money or serving as an advisor. The fees they’re offering are… substantial.”

I smiled despite everything.

“Tell them I’ll think about it,” I said. “But I’m not making any commitments right now.”

“Of course,” he said.

I drove home through evening traffic, the glow of other people’s living rooms passing by my windows.

My building wasn’t impressive by Morrison standards—four stories, brick, a small lobby with mailboxes and a ficus no one quite remembered watering—but my name was on the deed, and it was paid off.

Inside my one-bedroom apartment, I changed into sweats, made a mug of tea, and opened my laptop.

My portfolio dashboard greeted me with a sea of numbers.

TechVantage: position closed. Realized gain: $247,000,000.

Other positions: mostly green. A couple yellow flags I’d already marked for review.

I scrolled, checking, adjusting, thinking.

This was my world.

Quiet. Analytical. Satisfying in a way Caroline’s press conferences and ribbon cuttings had never been for me.

My phone buzzed again with a text from an unknown number.

Emma, it’s Marcus.
I know we weren’t always friendly. I wanted you to know your analysis was right. I should have listened. I hope you can forgive our arrogance. —M

I considered, then typed back.

Thank you. Be honest with the SEC. It’s your best chance.

Another text, this one from Jennifer.

You’re brilliant. We were idiots. Congratulations on the exit—you earned it.

I didn’t reply.

A third message came in.

Caroline.

I’m sorry. For everything. For not listening. For treating you like you didn’t matter. You were right about the accounting. You were right about me.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then I wrote:

Thank you. I hope things work out as well as they can. Take care of yourself.

I set the phone down.

The next morning, a news alert popped up over my coffee.

TechVantage CEO Caroline Morrison Steps Down Amid SEC Probe. Stock Down 67% From Peak.

I closed it and opened my email instead.

Seventeen voicemails.

Four pitches from venture capital firms.

One particularly intriguing message from a Wharton professor asking if I’d be interested in teaching a course on value investing.

Maybe.

Later.

My phone rang.

Dad.

“Emma,” he said, sounding less like a mogul and more like a father. “I wanted to apologize again. And… to ask a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” I asked.

“I’ve been looking at some of my commercial real estate holdings,” he said. “And for the first time, I’m wondering if I might be missing things the way I missed what Caroline was doing. Would you… would you be willing to look at some of my statements? Just to tell me what you see.”

I smiled.

“Send them over,” I said. “I’ll take a look.”

“Thank you,” he said, exhaling. “And Emma… your mother and I would like to have dinner with you. Just the three of us. No business talk. No Caroline. Just… getting to know our daughter again. The real you.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “Next week?”

“Next week,” he agreed.

After we hung up, I opened the first of three financial statements I’d flagged. Not his. Mine. Companies in my portfolio that were showing the first little hairline cracks TechVantage had shown six months ago.

Time to read.

Line by line.

Footnote by footnote.

Looking for the story the numbers were trying to hide.

Because that’s what investing really was, I’d learned.

Not a gut feeling.

Not a hot tip.

Not a flashy IPO.

It was quiet, careful, methodical work. It was reading the boring parts other people skipped. It was trusting your own analysis even when everyone else said you didn’t know what you were talking about.

My family had spent years mocking my “small investments.”

The thing about compound interest, in money and in skill, is that it doesn’t care if anyone respects it while it’s growing.

It just… grows.

In the end, the crash of TechVantage did more than knock billions off a ticker.

It shattered the story my family had told themselves about who was smart and who wasn’t, who was “serious” and who was “cute.”

It forced them to see me.

Not as the quiet, artsy, “modest” sister.

But as someone who had built real wealth in silence.

Who had done excellent work without applause.

Who had known what she was doing all along.

I took another sip of coffee, highlighted a suspicious line item—“Deferred Contractual Revenue (Non-Current)”—and smiled faintly.

Time to find the next Caroline.

The next TechVantage.

The next opportunity everyone else was too arrogant to look closely at.

THE END