Floyd's POV
Moreover, our driver’s last name was also Motley. What were the odds? Was this all just a coincidence? I recalled that both the driver and the housekeeper were hired by my wife, Rhea. She claimed they were distant relatives of hers and assured me they were trustworthy.
Still, I wanted to install security cameras in the house, but Rhea insisted it would invade our privacy. She refused. Now, without any footage, I had to find the truth another way.
Then I remembered something else. Rhea once asked me for a credit card. I assumed it was for her personal use, so I didn’t question it. But just a few days ago, I noticed a huge charge — someone had bought an LV handbag. At first, I thought it was Rhea. But the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Rhea wasn’t into that brand.
Curious, I opened my banking app and checked the transaction history. But my heart sank upon seeing it.
In just one month, nearly 30,000 dollars had been spent on that card.
I called one of the stores to ask about the purchase, and what I heard made my blood boil. The clerk told me the buyer was a young girl, about fifteen, with a mole on her face.
It was Astrid.
The clerk also told me she was very generous at that time as she even treated each of her two friends who traveled with her with bags.
Fighting to stay calm, I checked the dashcam footage from the driver’s car. But as soon as I watched it, the veins on the back of my hand bulged with rage.
The driver was supposed to take Zera to school every day. But the footage showed him only ever driving Astrid.
Where was Zera? How did she get to school?
I needed answers. I stormed outside to confront Astrid but ran into someone unexpected — Carter Johnson, our part-time gardener and a distant relative of mine — a trustworthy man.
He only came by a few times a month to tend to the garden, but I paid him a full salary regardless. He was always hardworking, occasionally helping around the house when needed.
I saw surprise in his eyes when he saw me, but it was soon replaced with hesitation.
"Carter," I said, pulling him aside. "You looked like you had something to tell me. What is it?"
He hesitated, then sighed. "Floyd, I don’t know if I should say this… but you need to keep a closer eye on things at home."
I pressed him for answers, and he finally told me everything.
"That housekeeper of yours? She’s a thief. I’ve caught her sneaking things out to sell more than once. She even hikes up prices on groceries and pockets the difference. When I confronted her, she threatened to break my legs if I ever spoke up."
His face darkened. "And the driver… He’s no better. I said something once, and the housekeeper called him over. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t shut up. If it weren't for you, I would have left long ago."
"And Astrid?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Spoiled rotten. I once saw her pouring fresh milk down the drain just to wash her feet and face. When I told her to stop wasting food, she called me a ‘worthless old farmer’ and said I had no right to tell her what to do."
Uncle Carter’s eyes filled with regret. "I’ve also always seen her push Zera around. Yell at her. Even hit her."
My hands clenched into fists as rage surged through me. Immediately, I instructed someone to look up the trip histories of the drivers and vegetable merchants the nanny often works with.
Then, I found Zera and gently asked her if Astrid had been bullying her. But she hesitated, eyes darting nervously, and only shook her head.
Left with no choice, I just checked her phone, only to find a video that made my blood run cold. Only then did she confess everything with a terrified look.
In the video, a group of girls shoved Zera into a corner, kicking and punching her. One girl even jammed a filthy mop into her mouth and jabbed the handle into her back repeatedly.
Floyd's POV
The person behind all this... was none other than Astrid — the girl I’d taken in and supported for years.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Fury surged through me as I stormed into Astrid’s room.
"What is this?! Explain yourself!" I demanded, shoving the phone in her face.
Her eyes widened in shock as she saw the video. "Dad, i-it wasn’t me! I... was forced to do it!" she stammered, her face pale.
But her lies only made my blood boil. Letting out a bitter laugh, I turned away and took Zera’s hand in mine. We were going to the hospital — I needed to make sure she was okay.
On the way, we stopped by the police station. I filed a report and handed over every piece of evidence I had.
At the hospital, the doctor’s face was grim as he handed me the report. "Your daughter has multiple new injuries," he said, voice tight with anger. "But that’s not all — there are signs of older wounds too. Blunt force trauma, cuts from sharp objects, even marks from fingernails."
He paused, eyes darkening. "The most serious injury is a fracture in her shin. It’s slight, but left untreated, it could’ve gotten much worse. I suggest you start paying closer attention to your daughter’s well-being."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Guilt and rage swirled inside me. Rage not only for Astrid but for Zera's mother, my wife, Rhea, as well. For I don't believe, she, a mother, wouldn't know that her daughter was being bullied for a long time.
As Zera underwent treatment, I sat quietly by her side, wrestling with my emotions. Then my phone buzzed. It was a call from the finance department.
"Sir," the accountant began hesitantly, "I wanted to report something strange. Recently, Mrs. Johnson transferred four million dollars, claiming it was for an investment. But when we double-checked, the signature didn’t match yours — even the company seal looked off."
My mind reeled. Four million?! I’d never authorized that transfer. And I sure as hell didn’t sign anything.
Back when I started this company, Rhea had been my secretary. After the company took off, we started dating and eventually got married. But before the wedding, we’d signed a prenuptial agreement — the company and my personal assets remained separate.
Yet, she’d insisted she didn’t want to be a housewife, so I gave her control over one of our branches. However, while the other branches thrived, hers consistently bled money — losses in the millions every year. Still, I never questioned it. I thought I was giving her a chance to learn.
But now? Now I realized I’d been a fool.
I instructed the finance department to take immediate legal action and dig deeper into the missing funds.
When we left the hospital, I barely had time to process what I’d learned before another shock hit me. As I drove out of the parking lot, a Porsche swerved in front of us, crashing straight into my car.
I jumped out to check the damage. But when I saw the license plate, my heart sank.
It was the same Porsche I’d bought Rhea for her birthday.
A man climbed out, middle-aged and angry. Gripping a baseball bat, he stormed towards me.
"Watch where you’re going, you idiot!" he barked. "Do you know what kind of car this is? A Porsche! One you’ll never afford in your pathetic life!"
I glanced at my own car — a modest two-thousand-dollar vehicle that had been with me since the start of my journey. It wasn’t much, but it meant the world to me.
Ignoring his taunts, I pulled out my phone and called Rhea.
"What’s going on with your Porsche?" I asked.
She hesitated. "Oh... um, I’m driving it right now."
Not bothering to reply, I directly hung up and called the police.
The man must’ve thought I was bluffing because he only got louder.
"Listen, you deadbeat! Either you cough up a hundred thousand dollars for the damage, or you’re not leaving!"
Before I could respond, Zera stepped out of the car. But the moment she saw the man, she froze, eyes wide with terror. Trembling, she hid behind me.
Puzzled, I crouched down to ask her.
Floyd's POV
"Have you seen him before?" I asked gently.
Zera’s face went pale, and she burst into tears, her little body trembling like a leaf in the wind. "He's... he's my sister's dad," she whispered. "One time, when my sister was hitting me, he kicked me."
The man’s face twisted with rage the moment he laid eyes on Zera. "So it was you, you little tramp," he sneered. "I should’ve hit you harder back then. Little brat, already luring men at such a young age. Like father, like daughter — only a useless man could raise trash like you!"
I reached for my phone to call the police, but the man snatched it from my hand and smashed it onto the pavement, stomping on it for good measure. "Call the cops? You really think the police will believe a nobody like you over me?"
The commotion had started blocking traffic, and soon a crowd began to gather. Instead of stepping in, they whispered among themselves.
"Hey, dude, it’s not worth the trouble," one bystander said. "Your car is already old. It's not worth much money."
"Yeah," another chimed in. "Besides, look at the road, it's jammed now. Just pay him off, so we can all move on."
"Exactly. He’s driving a Porsche, and you’re in that old thing. You’ll never win. Just consider it a lesson learned."
Their words only fueled the man’s arrogance, and he smirked, looking like he had me cornered. What he didn’t expect was that one of the drivers stuck in traffic happened to be one of my employees, who called the police in my stead.
Noticing it, the man was in a fury and about to scold my employee when his phone suddenly rang.
Picking it up, his cocky demeanor instantly evaporated replaced with a pale face as a sheet. Panicked, he answered, "What? My mom and Astrid were taken to the police station?"
