I’m not sure whether most readers read this part of the book, but I always do. So my first thank you goes to the readers. Without you, I’d just be writing for myself. And while that’d be entertaining, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Thank you to my husband, who put up with my inattention and absentmindedness while I chased my dream. Your love and support made this road so much easier to travel. To my betas: AJS and CNS. You told me what sucked and what worked, and your feedback made this book so much better than I could have ever made it by myself. You have my eternal gratitude for taking the time to read everything I threw at you. To Madison Seidler: Thank you for taking a chance on me and giving me the confidence to hit publish. Your editing skills are truly an asset to the indie author. To Chelsea: Thank you for polishing my work until it shone. To Helen Williams of AllBookedOut.com: Thank you for your patience and creativity in designing this fabulous cover. You’ve become a great friend from across the pond. To Jovana Shirley: Thank you for the fantastic formatting.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you to my entire family for everything you are and everything you do. Without you, I wouldn’t be me. For Dad, I miss you more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for teaching me that no goal is ever too big to pursue. Consider this writing gig my BHAG. Although, I will say, I hope you’re not reading this up there. I’m pretty sure you’d ground me for the rest of my life, regardless of the fact that I’m 30 years old.
For a sneak peek of my next project, Beneath This Mask, a new adult contemporary romance, please read on ...
Chapter 1
Charlotte
I stepped off the witness stand feeling like I'd been skinned and gutted, my insides laid out for public viewing. I refused to meet my father's piercing aqua stare. It was the same one I saw every time I looked in the mirror. Instead, I focused on the sleeves of his navy pinstripe Armani suit jacket and his gaudy diamond cufflinks winking in the buzzing fluorescent light of the courtroom. My father was a general, flanked by his army of thousand dollar an hour defense attorneys. Not that they could save him. The disgust on the jurors’ faces spoke louder than any convoluted defense they could mount. I pushed through the swinging wooden gate and glanced at my mother, sitting primly, ankles crossed and hands folded, in her favorite Chanel suit and tasteful gold jewelry. Lisette Agoston was the quintessential picture of a woman standing by her man. She expected me to take the seat next to her. The seat I'd vacated hours before, hands sweating and stomach churning, to give my testimony and endure the brutal cross-examination. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit down and be the supportive, na?ve daughter anymore. So I kept walking. I didn't look at the gawking members of the press or the scornful sneers of the victims. I pushed open the heavy, carved wooden door and took my first deep breath of air that wasn’t laced with lies.
I was done.
With them.
With this life.
With all of it.
It had all been a meticulously constructed fairy tale, and I'd been too blind and trusting to see through the facade. I was done. The burning shame swamped me. The U.S. Attorney’s words rang in my ears:
How does it feel to realize that your privileged life has been paid for with other people’s dreams?
The objections came too late to stop the cutting words. But no objection could erase the fact that he was right. My life had been paid for with money diverted from the hard-earned retirement savings of tens of thousands of innocent victims. Move over Bernie Madoff. Alistair Agoston figured out a better way. Exponentially more complex and devastating, because the moment the scheme started to topple, $125 billion dollars disappeared into thin air. Or hundreds of offshore accounts. No one was really sure. My father refused to admit anything, but the dozens of charges leveled by the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Department of Justice would ensure that he spent the rest of his life in federal prison.
And after the cross I’d just been subjected to, it was clear that the U.S. Attorney thought I should be joining him in an orange jumpsuit. If trusting your father was a crime, he’d be right about that, too.
I exited the courthouse, running down the marble stairs through the gauntlet of shouting reporters, dodging the microphones and cameras they shoved in my face.
“Charlotte, did you know—”
“Charlotte, where’s the money?”
“Charlotte, are you being charged? Did you cut a deal?”