Page 33 of Blade's Princess

Half an hour later, I drop her off and watch as she stops to give me a final excited wave before ducking in to the animal clinic.

She'll be fine,I remind myself about a hundred times on the ride back to the clubhouse.

"Cipher's waiting for us in his computer cave,” Ghost fetches me a few hours later. "Says he's gone through the file you gave him and he’s got the goods on Margaret Whitmore—everything we need.”

My jaw tightens, a rush of cold fury washing through my veins. “Let’s nail the bitch.”

Cipher sits surrounded by laptops, printouts, and screens of data as his fingers fly across keyboards. He barely looks up as we enter, completely absorbed in whatever digital rabbit hole he's exploring.

"Talk to me," I demand, taking a seat. Max settles at my feet with a heavy sigh.

Cipher finally glances up. "Margaret Whitmore is, quite possibly, one of the most efficiently corrupt individuals I've ever investigated. And I once tracked financials for a Colombian cartel leader."

He turns a screen toward us. “When they died, Sophie's parents, James and Elizabeth Bennett, left behind a substantial estate for their daughter. Life insurance policies totaling just over two million. Investment portfolios worth another seven hundred thousand. Property—including that mansion—valued at nearly three million. All told, just under 5.3 million dollars."

The numbers make my blood fucking boil. All that money while Sophie wore hand-me-downs and went hungry.

"The entire estate was placed in trust for Sophie, with Margaret named as trustee until Sophie reached the age of eighteen.” Cipher pulls up another document. "Standard arrangements, nothing unusual there. What is unusual is the pattern of withdrawals over the past twelve years."

Charts and spreadsheets flash across the screen, a digital roadmap of systematic theft.

"At first, the withdrawals were reasonable—expenses for Sophie's care and education. But about a year after Margaret gained custody, the pattern changed." His finger traces a sharp upward curve on a graph. "Suddenly, large sums were being diverted from the trust into Margaret's personal accounts and her charities."

"How much has she stolen?" Ghost asks, leaning forward.

"By my calculations, approximately 1.7 million dollars." Cipher's expression remains clinical, but his eyes betray a flicker of disgust. "She's pilfered from the trust in amounts just low enough to avoid triggering automatic audits, but she's been systematically draining it for years."

"And the charities?" I ask, thinking of Sophie's descriptions of the endless fundraisers she was forced to work.

Cipher's mouth twists. "Classic shell game. She runs seven different charitable foundations, all with noble-sounding missions. Children's Welfare Foundation, Hope for Tomorrow, Future Leaders Fund... each one legitimate on paper. Each one primarily funding Margaret Whitmore's lifestyle."

He pulls up more documents—financial statements, tax filings, bank records. "She's been using charity funds to pay for her daughters' private school tuition, European vacations, clothing allowances, even redecorating the mansion."

"The same mansion where she had Sophie scrubbing floors," I growl, knuckles whitening as I grip the armrests. "While sleeping in a fucking attic."

"Exactly." Cipher nods grimly. "I've pulled together enough evidence to put her away for wire fraud, embezzlement, and tax evasion at minimum."

"What about the local authorities?" Ghost asks. "She's tight with the police chief, the mayor."

"That's why we don’t go local," Cipher replies, pushing a file toward us. "We go federal. I've compiled a complete dossierfor the FBI's financial crimes division. Anonymous tip from aconcerned citizen."

I lean back, weighing our options. Part of me—a large, violent part—wants to handle this the old-fashioned way. A midnight visit to Margaret Whitmore with one of the blades from my collection would solve the problem permanently.

"How soon before the Feds move?" I ask, forcing myself to think rationally.

"Hard to say. Could be days, could be weeks. They'll need to verify the information, get warrants." Cipher shrugs. "But once they start digging, she's finished. The evidence is too overwhelming."

Ghost meets my gaze across the table, reading the conflict in my eyes. "We could speed things along. Drop a few hints to the press. Nothing specific, just enough to get people asking questions."

I nod slowly, a plan forming. "And in the meantime, we keep Sophie safe. If Margaret suspects we're building a case..."

"She'll lash out," Ghost finishes. "Target what she perceives as hers. Sophie. The dog."

"I'll fucking gut her if she tries," I say flatly, the words hanging in the quiet room like a promise.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Ghost responds carefully. "For Sophie's sake more than Whitmore's."

The meeting continues for another hour as we review every detail of Cipher's findings and strategize our next moves. By the time we finish, cold fury has settled in my gut. The systematic cruelty Margaret showed Sophie wasn't just sadism—it was calculated business. Keep the girl broken, isolated, and dependent to maintain control of her money.

---