My lawyer walked toward the large display screen at the front of the room.

“We also have irrefutable evidence regarding how this entire document was fabricated,” he announced.

The screen lit up, showing a clear, high definition video feed of my private office in Aspen. The timestamp on the footage was from October fourth, which was nearly two months after the supposed signing date on the document.

The office door swung open on the screen, and Patrick walked in, looking around nervously.

My mother let out a sharp gasp, Isabelle covered her mouth in shock, and my father just stared blankly at the screen.

In the video, Patrick walked directly to my desk, opened several drawers, rummaged through my private files, and pulled out my company letterhead. He then snatched a pen from my desk, checked the hallway one more time, and exited the room with the stolen materials.

Mr. Vance paused the footage just as Patrick turned his face toward the security camera, confirming his identity beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“The defendant entered private property without any authorization and stole my client’s corporate stationery,” Mr. Vance told the court. “Later, that exact stolen stationery was used to draft the document presented by the plaintiff.”

Patrick stood up, his face flushed with a mixture of rage and panic.

“That proves absolutely nothing, and besides, those cameras were not supposed to be there!” he shouted.

For the very first time that day, I looked him directly in the eyes.

“I was inside my own home, Patrick, which means you were the one who had no business being there in the first place.”

Isabelle turned toward him, her body shaking with a mixture of fear and betrayal.

“You told me she had signed it, and you told me we only needed to put a little bit of pressure on her!” she wailed.

Patrick laughed, but it was a jagged, hollow sound.

“Do not try to play the saint now, Isabelle, because you were the one who said you couldn’t stand seeing your single sister living a better life than you,” he spat back.

My mother started sobbing loudly, and my father finally closed his eyes, looking as though he had aged ten years in the span of five minutes.

The judge demanded silence, but the chaos was already too far gone to contain.

Then, my lawyer pulled one final, thick envelope from his briefcase.

“Your Honor, there is one last piece of evidence that the court needs to see,” he said.

When Isabelle saw the envelope, I knew she realized that there was no way out of this nightmare.