My Golden Boy Brother Deliberately Set His Wedding On The Same Day As Mine So I Made Him Regret…
He scoffed.
“Sterling loves me.”
“I’m the Golden Boy.”
“That’s why Mom and Dad put up the money.”
“It’s an investment in the winning horse.”
My mother nodded eagerly.
“Exactly.”
“We’re investing in the future, and you need to get on board, Alyssa.”
“Stop being jealous and start being useful.”
“Jealous?”
I repeated.
“Yes, jealous!”
Brandon shouted.
“Because I’m the one going places.”
“I’m the one who matters, and you’re just the help.”
“So act like it.”
He smirked at me—that same smirk he’d used since we were kids when he broke my toys and blamed me for crying.
“Fine,”
I said. The word tasted like ash, but it was necessary.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good,”
My father said, patting Brandon on the back.
“See? She just needed a reminder of her place.”
The Secret Life of Alyssa Vance
They left high-fiving each other in the hallway. They thought they had won.
They thought they had crushed me back into submission. I closed the door and locked it.
Then I turned around and looked at the empty apartment. They didn’t know that Julian wasn’t fixing a toilet; he was in a boardroom across town signing the final acquisition papers for a chain of luxury venues, including the Gilded Manor—the very place Brandon had just booked.
And they certainly didn’t know about my job. “Glorified accountant,” Brandon had called me.
I walked to my desk and opened my laptop. I logged into the secure portal for the Sterling Group.
I typed in my credentials: User A. Vance; Clearance Level: External Forensic Auditor; Status: Active. I wasn’t an accountant; I was the person hired by the Board of Directors to find the leak in their sales division.
I was the person Brandon was terrified of, only he didn’t know I existed. I stared at the screen.
They wanted me to be useful. I would be useful.
I would be the most useful person in their entire lives. I was going to audit my brother’s entire existence.
Hunting in the Sterling Tower
The next morning, I didn’t put on my usual work-from-home leggings. I put on a charcoal blazer, stilettos that clicked like gunshots on marble, and the diamond stud earrings I’d bought myself after my last big case.
I drove downtown to the Sterling Group Tower, a 40-story monolith of glass and steel that dominated the skyline. To my family, this building was the temple where Brandon worshipped.
To Brandon, it was the kingdom he was about to inherit. To me, it was a crime scene.
I walked into the lobby. The security guard, a former Marine named Earl who never smiled at anyone, looked up.
He saw me, straightened his spine, and nodded.
“Good morning, Miss Vance,”
He rumbled.
“Boardroom B is unlocked for you.”
“Thanks, Earl.”
I swiped my badge. It wasn’t a visitor pass; it was a red-level clearance card, the kind issued only to C-suite executives and the external auditors hired to police them.
The light turned green, and I stepped into the elevator. I wasn’t here to check attendance; I was here to hunt.
The Ghost in the Machine
I set up in the private conference room on the 38th floor. I didn’t need to hack anything; I had root access.
I pulled up the financial records for the sales division, specifically the accounts managed by the top performer, Brandon Vance. “Glorified accountant,” he had called me.
I opened the digital ledger. I didn’t look for math errors; math errors are mistakes.
I was looking for patterns, and patterns tell stories. It took me less than 10 minutes to find the ghost in the machine.
Brandon’s sales figures were spectacular—too spectacular. He was showing a 30% quarter-over-quarter growth in a stagnant market.
I clicked on his top three new clients: Apex Global Solutions, Vertex Media, and Northstar Consulting. I ran a quick cross-reference with the Secretary of State’s database.
Apex Global dissolved in 2019. Vertex Media’s registered address was a UPS Store mailbox in a strip mall in Nevada.
Northstar Consulting didn’t exist. My brother wasn’t a sales genius; he was a fiction writer.
He was creating fake invoices to inflate his sales targets, triggering massive performance bonuses for himself.
The $400,000 Paper Trail
But where was the money coming from to pay these invoices? I followed the cash flow.
He was funneling the marketing budget—money meant for ads and client dinners—into vendor payments to these fake companies. And here was the kicker: I traced the routing number for Vertex Media.
It looked familiar. I pulled up my own banking app and checked my transfer history, specifically the $2,000 I had sent Brandon for his car repair last year.
The routing numbers matched. He was wiring company money directly into his personal PayPal account.
He wasn’t just cooking the books; he was burning down the kitchen. The total embezzled amount over three years was just over $400,000.
I sat back in my chair, feeling a cold, hard knot in my stomach. This wasn’t just unethical; this was federal prison time.
This was wire fraud, tax evasion, and grand larceny. Then I found the cherry on top: a draft email in his sent folder addressed to his frat brother.
“The old man Sterling is going senile.”
“I’m printing money over here and nobody’s watching.”
“By the time I’m VP, I’ll bury the paper trail.”
“The parents just mortgaged the house for the wedding, so I’m golden.”
I stared at the screen. He called our parents’ sacrifice—their financial ruin—his safety net.
He was laughing at them. He was laughing at Mr. Sterling.
A Gift for the Groom
I hit print. The laser printer hummed to life in the corner, spitting out page after page of damning evidence: bank statements, fake invoices, the email, the IP logs.
It was a thick stack, warm to the touch. It weighed about as much as a brick, and it would do just as much damage when it hit him.
I organized the papers neatly, tapping the edges on the mahogany table to straighten them. Then I placed the entire stack into a thick, cream-colored envelope.
On the front, in my best calligraphy, I wrote two words: Wedding Gift.
The Coronation of Lies
The day of the wedding was a spectacle of excess. I arrived at the Gilded Manor in a black-tie gown I’d bought specifically for this moment: midnight blue, sleek, and devastatingly elegant.
Julian looked like James Bond in his tuxedo. We didn’t look like the help; we looked like we owned the place—which technically, Julian did.
We walked through the iron gates, past the fountains spouting champagne, and into the grand ballroom. It was breathtaking.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling. Waiters in white gloves circulated with trays of caviar.
It was a palace built on a foundation of lies. Brandon was holding court near the bar, already three drinks deep.
He spotted us immediately.
“Well, well,”
He sneered, walking over with a glass of scotch in his hand.
“Look who decided to play dress-up.”
“Did you rent those, or did you steal them?”
“We bought them,”
I said, my voice cool.
“Nice party, Brandon.”
“It’s not a party,”
He corrected, leaning in close so I could smell the expensive alcohol on his breath.
“It’s a coronation.”
“Mr. Sterling is here.”
“He’s going to announce my promotion tonight.”
“And you know what the best part is?”
He gestured around the room. Brandon bragged that our parents had funded everything because they knew who the real winner was.
Nearby, Mom and Dad beamed as they praised his visionary leadership, clinging to the illusion that he was Sterling’s chosen heir. They had no idea they were standing on a trap door.
The Final Audit
Then Mr. Sterling entered the room. Hushed, the legendary businessman moved through the crowd.
Brandon rushed to greet him, boasting about excellence and destiny. Sterling listened calmly, then stepped onto the stage and took the microphone.
“I’d like to correct the record,”
He said.
“Accuracy matters in business.”
“Please welcome my lead external auditor, Alyssa Vance.”
The spotlight hit me. Gasps followed.
My parents froze. Brandon went pale.
Sterling announced the truth: $400,000 in embezzlement, three years of tax fraud, and a crude shell company scheme. Brandon wasn’t being promoted; he was fired.
Federal agents were waiting. Brandon collapsed as he was arrested.
My mother screamed that I was lying. Sterling replied simply.
“It’s math.”
Outside, Brandon snapped when he saw Julian, lunging at him in a panic. Officers tackled him instantly.
Assault was added to his charges. My parents then demanded their $150,000 wedding deposit back.
Julian said nothing. I stepped forward and cited the contract’s conduct clause: criminal activity voided all refunds.
That money—their retirement, their last gamble—now legally belonged to Julian. Brandon is serving three years.
My parents lost their house soon after. Julian later bought it at auction and turned it into a shelter for runaway teens.
They tried to make me feel homeless my whole life. Now I hold the keys, and the door’s finally open to people who deserve it.
