They Mocked Me at My Brother’s Engagement — Then I Revealed I Own the Company They Work For and…

My phone buzzed with a text from Garrett. I looked at it for a long moment before opening it. He wanted to know if we could talk. He said something about Sloan “felt wrong.”

I checked the time. Five minutes until nine, when Franklin Whitmore was scheduled to make his big «welcome-to-the-family» toast. Too little, too late, big brother. You should have trusted that feeling an hour ago. You should have trusted me years ago.

But better late than never. At least he was starting to see through the mask. I got out of the car and walked back toward the hotel. The Arizona night air was warm, and somewhere inside, a con artist in a white dress was about to have the worst night of her life. Time to crash an engagement party.

I walked back into the Monarch Hotel with a different energy than when I’d left. Before, I was the invisible sister, the country girl everyone looked down on. Now, I was a woman with a plan.

Wesley met me near the service entrance, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. He said he had been watching the Whitmores all evening, and that something was definitely off with them. He mentioned that Franklin had made four phone calls in the past hour, each one leaving him more agitated than the last.

I told Wesley I needed the A.V. system ready. I said that during Franklin’s toast at nine, we were going to give the guests a presentation they would never forget. Wesley didn’t even blink. He asked what kind of presentation we were talking about.

I handed him a USB drive. On it were scanned copies of the most damaging documents from the folder, plus everything Naomi had sent me: court records from Arizona, financial statements showing the fraud, photos of Sloan from three years ago under her real name, Sandra Weems, and a paper trail of lies stretching back a decade.

I told him when Franklin started his toast, I wanted it all on the screens. Every document, every photo, every piece of evidence. Wesley took the drive with a slight smile. He said he always knew working for me would be interesting, but this was something else entirely. Then he disappeared toward the control room.

My phone buzzed. Rebecca, my lawyer, confirming everything Naomi had found. The Whitmores were indeed under federal investigation. More importantly, she had made a call to the lead investigator, a woman named Agent Carla Reeves, who had been trying to locate the Whitmores for months.

They kept moving, changing names, staying one step ahead—until tonight. Rebecca told me Agent Reeves was already on her way with the team. They would be outside the hotel by 9:15, ready to move in once the evidence was public.

Everything was falling into place. The trap was set. Now I just needed to wait. I found a spot near the back of the ballroom where I could see everything without being noticed.

Sloan was working the room again, that fake smile plastered on her face like it was painted there. Garrett stood beside her, playing the dutiful fiancé, completely unaware that his entire future was about to implode.

My mother was near the front, chatting with Delilah Whitmore like they were old friends, two women who had nothing in common except their ability to make me feel worthless. Soon, one of them would realize she had been played. The other would realize she had pushed away the wrong daughter.

I checked my watch. 8:52. My phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from Garrett. He asked where I was and said he really needed to talk. He said something about the Whitmores was bothering him—the way Franklin kept disappearing, the way Sloan deflected every question about her past. He said maybe he was being paranoid.

I stared at the message for a long moment. Part of me wanted to respond, to tell him to trust his instincts, to warn him about what was coming. But what would that accomplish? He had 34 years to trust me, to include me, to treat me like family. He chose not to.

Besides, if I warned him now, he might warn Sloan, and I couldn’t risk that. I typed back a simple response. I told him we would talk after the toast and to just wait.

8:56. Franklin Whitmore was straightening his tie near the small stage where the DJ had set up. He looked confident again, his salesman mask firmly in place. He had no idea what was about to happen.

I thought about what Sloan had said to me earlier. How I was dead weight. How nobody would miss me. How I should just stay away. The funny thing about people who underestimate you is that they never see you coming. They’re so busy looking down that they miss the moment you rise up.

8:59. Franklin stepped onto the stage and took the microphone. The DJ lowered the music. Guests turned to face him, champagne glasses in hand, ready to toast the happy couple.

I made eye contact with Wesley across the room. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod. The screens behind the stage flickered to life, currently showing a slideshow of Garrett and Sloan’s photos. Happy couple at a restaurant. Happy couple at the beach. Happy couple living their happy lie. Not for much longer.

Franklin cleared his throat and began to speak. He said, «Good evening everyone,» and thanked them all for being there to celebrate this beautiful union. He said when his «daughter» first brought Garrett home, he knew immediately that this young man was special.

I almost laughed. His daughter. The daughter who wasn’t his daughter. The daughter whose real name he probably had to remind himself of every morning.

Franklin continued, talking about family, about legacy, about how honored the Whitmores were to join the Burns family. He talked about bright futures and grandchildren and building something lasting together. Every word was a lie, and every lie was about to be exposed.

Franklin raised his glass. «To the happy couple, to love, to family, to forever.»

I pulled out my phone and sent Wesley a single word: Now.

The screens flickered. For a moment, everyone probably thought it was a technical glitch. The happy photos of Garrett and Sloan disappeared, replaced by something else entirely. A document, official looking, stamped with court seals and legal terminology.

Franklin’s smile froze on his face. The document was a court filing from Arizona, dated three years ago—a fraud investigation. And there, listed as a person of interest, was a name nobody in this room had heard before: Sandra Weems.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. People squinted at the screens, trying to understand what they were seeing. Franklin fumbled with the microphone, his face going from red to pale in seconds.

He said there must be some mistake and called it a technical error. He turned toward the AV booth and shouted for someone to fix it, but the screens kept changing.

Another document appeared, financial records showing investor money being funneled into shell companies. Then another—news articles about a real estate scheme in Phoenix that had cost dozens of families their life savings.

Then photos: a younger Sandra Weems, different hair color, same cold eyes, standing next to Franklin and Delilah at some charity event under completely different names.

Sloan stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, her champagne glass trembling in her hand. For the first time all night, her mask had slipped completely. She looked terrified.

Garrett stared at the screens, then at Sloan, then back at the screens. I could see his mind working, pieces clicking together. The doubt he had felt all evening suddenly making horrible sense.

Franklin tried to push through the crowd toward the exit, but two of my security staff stepped into his path. Delilah grabbed his arm, whispering frantically, but there was nowhere to go.

That’s when I stepped forward. I walked through the parting crowd toward the stage, my boots clicking on the marble floor. Every eye in the room turned to me—the country girl, the nobody, the dead weight.

Wesley’s voice came over the speakers, calm and professional. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce the owner of the Monarch Hotel and CEO of Birch Hospitality. Please welcome Ms. Bethany Burns.”

The silence that followed was deafening. My mother’s face went white. Garrett’s jaw actually dropped open. Even Sloan, in the middle of her panic, looked genuinely shocked.

I took the microphone from Franklin’s limp hand.

“Good evening, everyone,” I said. “I apologize for the interruption, but I thought you might want to know who you were really celebrating tonight.”

I gestured to the screens behind me.

“Franklin and Delilah Whitmore are not who they claim to be. Their real estate empire is a fraud. Their wealth was stolen from innocent investors, and their daughter Sloan is actually named Sandra Weems, a con artist who has been running this same scheme for over a decade.”

Sloan finally found her voice. She screamed that I was lying and called me a jealous, pathetic nobody. She said I was making this up because I couldn’t stand to see Garrett happy.

I smiled at her. “That’s interesting,” I said. “Did I also make up the federal investigation that has been following you for two years? Or the arrest warrants that were issued last month in Arizona? And I’m curious how I could have faked the fact that Agent Carla Reeves and her team are currently waiting outside this hotel.”