She picked it up, hands trembling, opened the first page and froze. It was a full investigation: her job history, address, even old photos of her with her mother. Henry had investigated her without permission, without saying a word.
"Cali," his voice came from the kitchen, "did you find your phone?"
She didn't answer. She just stood there holding the document tightly, the anger rising in her chest. Henry appeared in the doorway, smiling, but the smile vanished when he saw what she was holding.
"Cali—"
"What is this?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous.
"I can explain."
"Explain what, Henry? That you investigated me like I'm some kind of criminal? That you went through my life without asking?"
"It's not like that," he said, taking a step forward.
"Then what is it?" she shouted, throwing the document on the table. "You decided you had the right to know everything about me before hiring me? Or did you think I was hiding something?"
"Cali, I just wanted to make sure that—"
"Make sure of what? That I wasn't a con artist? That I wasn't going to steal your things? Congratulations, Henry. You did it. You found out everything about me, even things I barely remembered." Tears began rolling down her face, but they weren't tears of sadness; they were tears of anger. "I trusted you," she said, her voice breaking. "I really thought you had changed, but you're still the same, thinking you can buy everything, even people."
"That's not it," Henry said, desperate. "Cali, please."
"No, I'm done. The contract, the lessons, everything. It's over." She grabbed her bag and walked toward the door.
"Cali, wait!"
She stopped at the door but didn't turn around. "You still think everything has a price, Henry, but some things don't—and trust is one of them."
And she left, slamming the door. Henry stood in the middle of the room alone, the silence pressing down on him like a ton of bricks.
The next morning, a knock on the office door pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Thomas, the private investigator he had hired weeks earlier.
"Mr. Scott," Thomas greeted him, holding a thick folder.
"What do you want?" Henry asked, drained.
"I have something you need to see." Thomas placed the folder on the table. On the cover, written in bold letters: Cali Brooks, full dossier.
Henry looked at it, his stomach turning. He wasn't sure if he wanted to open it, but he knew he had to. With hesitant hands, Henry opened the folder. The first pages held information he already knew: Cali's work history, old addresses, financial records. Nothing unusual.
Then he turned the page and froze. There was an old, faded photo: a girl, maybe 10 years old, smiling next to an elegant woman—Bethania Brooks, Cali's mother—and beside them, a man in a suit. His face was partly cut off, but something about the image unsettled Henry.
He kept reading, and what he found took his breath away: Cali's father hadn't just disappeared. He had a name—a name Henry knew very well: Richard Palmer.
Henry dropped the folder like it was on fire. Richard Palmer was one of his company's biggest investors, a powerful, respected man with connections all over Wall Street. And he was also the man who had abandoned Cali and her mother when she was only 12.
"This can't be right," Henry whispered, rereading the document.
But it was. Everything matched: dates, locations, even old photos Thomas had pulled from some forgotten archive. Richard Palmer was Cali's father, and she probably had no idea how close he was now.
Henry grabbed his phone immediately and called her number: straight to voicemail. He tried again: nothing. She had blocked him.
"Damn it," he muttered, slamming the phone onto the table.
Thomas cleared his throat. "Mr. Scott, there's more information in the file. Maybe you'd want to—"
"No," Henry cut him off, closing the folder. "I've seen enough. Thank you, Thomas. You can go."
The investigator hesitated, then left. Henry was alone in the office, staring at the folder like it was a bomb about to explode. He had to tell Cali. She needed to know her father was nearby, that he was a partner in the company. But how? She wasn't answering his calls, wasn't replying to messages, and probably hated him right now. Henry rubbed his face, exhausted. Everything was falling apart.
Hours later, his secretary, Veronica, walked into the office without knocking. She was efficient, always polished, but there was something about her that always rubbed Henry the wrong way—maybe it was the way she looked at him, like she expected something he would never give.
"Mr. Scott, I need you to sign these papers," she said, placing a stack of documents on his desk.
Henry barely looked up. "Leave them there. I'll sign them later."
Veronica didn't leave. She stood there, staring at the closed folder on the desk.
Henry noticed. "Do you need anything else?" he asked, impatient.
"No, I just thought maybe you could use someone to talk to. You seem tired."
"I'm fine," he replied coldly.
Veronica nodded and finally walked out. But Henry didn't notice that she had seen the name on the folder and that later that night, she would return to the office and read every word of it.
Two days later, hell broke loose. Cali woke up to her phone buzzing with notifications, again. But this time it was worse, much worse.
The headlines were everywhere: Waitress who humiliated billionaire is daughter of Richard Palmer, investor accused in financial scandal. Cali Brooks: from abandoned girl to opportunist? The dark past of the dancer who captured Henry Scott.
Cali felt the ground fall out from under her. She clicked one of the articles and started reading; every word was a knife. They told everything: how her father had abandoned the family, how he'd been involved in old fraud scandals, how Cali had grown up in poverty while he built an empire. And at the end of the article, there was a photo—an old picture of her and her mother laughing at a birthday party, a photo she kept locked away in an album at home.
How did the press get their hands on that?
Cali threw her phone across the room and sat on the floor, trembling. She could barely breathe. Her life was being torn apart again, and this time, there was no way out.
In the days that followed, Cali became a target for mockery: cruel comments on social media, articles making fun of her story, even people on the street cracking jokes. She couldn't take it anymore. She packed a small suitcase, grabbed a few clothes, and left New York without telling anyone.
She went to a little coastal town called Cape Haven, a few hours away—a place where no one knew her, where she could breathe without feeling the weight of judgmental eyes. She found a job at a small, simple cafe serving homemade pies and fresh coffee. The owner, an older man named George, didn't ask questions; he just hired her and left her alone. And for the first time in weeks, Cali was able to sleep without nightmares.
Meanwhile, back in New York, Henry was beside himself. He had seen the news, read every horrible article, and he knew exactly where it had all come from: the dossier, that damn dossier he'd left on the table.
He called Thomas back and demanded an investigation. Who had entered the office? Who had made copies?