Chapter 8
The fallout was swift, brutal, and entirely public.
Because of the reporters Vivien had tipped off, the two-dollar story went viral locally.
The internet, ever ruthless in its pursuit of justice, dug into Logan and Sienna.
Within forty-eight hours, Logan’s employer—a mid-tier logistics firm—fired him after clients complained about being associated with an elder abuser and a fraud.
Sienna’s country club membership was revoked, and the other mothers at her kids’ private school treated her like a leper.
But public shame was only the beginning.
The real tragedy for them was the money.
A sudden windfall of half a million dollars is a dangerous thing for people who have never worked hard to build anything. Without the discipline to manage it, the money became poison.
We heard the rumors through extended family members who suddenly wanted to talk to me now that I was the good guy in the public eye. I blocked most of them, but the gossip filtered through anyway.
Logan, desperate to prove he didn’t need his job, took his five hundred thousand dollars and dumped three hundred thousand of it into a highly speculative cryptocurrency venture run by a guy he met at a bar.
He bought a ninety-thousand-dollar Porsche with cash.
Within three months, the crypto venture folded. It was an obvious rug-pull scam.
The Porsche was impounded after Logan got a DUI.
Sienna didn’t fare much better.
She hid her five hundred thousand dollars from her husband, Mark, planning to use it to fund a lavish lifestyle of designer bags, luxury vacations, and spa treatments.
But Mark, who had been dealing with Sienna’s financial irresponsibility for years, found the bank statements.
Realizing she had hoarded half a million dollars while letting him work eighty-hour weeks to pay off their credit card debt, he filed for divorce.
In the divorce proceedings, the judge ordered the remaining lottery funds to be frozen as marital assets.
Sienna was forced to move into a cheap apartment, bleeding money on legal fees.
And Mom?
Mom got exactly what she paid for.
She was living with Logan in his cramped, messy apartment.
Without my twenty-five hundred dollars a month, and with Logan’s funds rapidly disappearing, her quality of life plummeted.
Logan didn’t know how to cook diabetic meals.
He bought her cheap fast food, sending her blood sugar soaring.
He forgot to pick up her insulin.
He complained loudly every time he had to drive her to the hospital for leg therapy.
Meanwhile, Vivien and I thrived.
The dark cloud that had hovered over our marriage for seven years was gone.
Our home was quiet.
Peaceful.
We went on weekend trips without having to arrange a sitter for my mother.
We cooked meals we actually wanted to eat.
We started talking about having a child of our own—a conversation we had put off for years because we were already raising a grown woman.
I thought we were finally done.
I thought the universe had settled the score.
I was wrong.
The climax was still coming.