My Daughter Told Everyone I Have Dementia To Steal My Fortune. Then I Found The Drugs She Was Putting In My Coffee. What Should My Next Move Be?

The Office Confrontation

Three days after the DNA confirmation, I drove downtown to Peton Holdings. The building rose from glass and steel, 20 stories of success I had built from nothing over four decades. I remembered the pride I felt when we first moved into this space, convinced I was creating something that would last for generations. Now I wasn’t sure of anything.

The receptionist looked up as I entered the lobby, her professional smile faltering. “Mr. Peton. We weren’t expecting you today.”

“I’m here to see my daughter.”

“Of course. Let me just…”

“I know where her office is.” I walked past the desk before she could call ahead.

The elevator ride to the executive floor felt endless. In the reflection of the polished doors, I barely recognized myself—older, harder, angrier than I’d been only a week ago. Allison’s office sat at the end of the hall overlooking the city she loved. I didn’t knock. I opened the door and stepped inside.

She was seated at her computer reviewing reports. When she saw me, surprise flickered across her face. Real, unguarded.

“Dad?” She stood. “What are you doing here?”

I closed the door and locked it. The sound echoed.

“I met someone interesting this week,” I said calmly. “A man named Jacob Warner.”

I watched her face change color, drained from her skin. “I don’t…”

“And his daughter,” I continued. “Clara. Seven years old. Dark hair, hazel eyes. A dimple in her left cheek.” I stopped in front of her desk. “Your eyes. Your dimple. Your daughter.”

Allison lowered herself into her chair, gripping the desk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me anymore,” I said. “I have DNA results. 99.97% probability. Clara Warner is my granddaughter. Your child.”

Silence filled the room. Outside the window, the city kept moving.

“How did you find out?” she whispered.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“You left traces,” I said. “Even when you ran, you couldn’t fully disappear. Elena Margaret Warner. You kept your middle name.”

Her jaw tightened.

“Why did you come here? Why did you abandon your daughter?”

“I was young. I made a mistake.”

“You were 30,” I said sharply. “You made a choice.”

Her voice rose. “What was I supposed to do? Come home and admit I’d been living under a fake name? That I’d had a baby with someone I barely knew?”

“You could have told me,” I said quietly. “I would have helped.”

She laughed bitterly. “You? You were too busy grieving Mom to notice me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” She slammed her hands on the desk. “Mom died, and you disappeared. I lost both parents in one day. I was grieving too!”

“So was I,” her voice cracked. “I needed you. You weren’t there.”

I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have been better. But this isn’t about then. This is about what you did to Clara and what you’re doing to me now.”

Her expression closed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did you cancel my reservation at the Lexington Room? Why did you tell them I was confused?”

“Because you are,” she said calmly. “You’re 70. You forget things.”

“I’m not forgetting anything,” I said. “You’ve been building a case, questioning neighbors, stealing statements, drugging my food.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“I found the evaluation.” I dropped the paper on her desk. “Dr. Brady Thornton doesn’t exist. You forged this to declare me incompetent and silence me.”

She stared at the document, then looked up. Her eyes were cold. “You need to leave.”

“We’re not finished.”

“Yes, we are.” She lifted her phone. “Leave now, or I call security.”

I looked at my daughter and felt something break. “She’s seven,” I said softly. “Clara is seven. She draws pictures for strangers and calls them grandpa because she’s desperate for family. She doesn’t know her mother abandoned her.”

“Get out,” Allison said.

I turned toward the door. My hand paused on the handle. “I thought I knew you,” I said. “I thought the girl who believed I could fix anything was still there.” I shook my head. “But she’s gone.”

She didn’t respond. I left. As I walked down the hall, I heard her door close. Through the glass, I saw her pick up her phone—not to call security, but someone else. The look on her face as she spoke made my blood run cold. Whatever was coming next, I had just made it worse.