Although Melody still legally owned Rosewood Rosel Opera, her influence within the establishment had significantly waned. For now, I held the reins—though not entirely. The authority was in my hands, but not yet sealed as mine.
But before I could secure my position permanently, I had to eliminate a looming threat.
David.
He wasn't just a nuisance—he was a ticking time bomb. If left unchecked, he could unravel everything.
Fortunately, I knew his singular vulnerability: Rosewood Winemaker.
Something had never quite added up about David's wealth. His financial ascent was far too steep for someone merely running a winemaking business. I had long suspected he was orchestrating something illicit behind the scenes—some elaborate fraud—but I had kept silent. Until now.
Now, I needed proof. Solid, undeniable evidence that would irreparably tarnish his name.
But what kind of fraud was he committing behind closed doors? I had no idea yet. I only knew one thing—I had to uncover it. And for that, I needed someone discreet, brilliant, and beyond suspicion.
Only one person fit that description: Mr. Oliver Jones.
I remembered him from my childhood. He had once worked for my father—a sharp, underrated detective with an exceptional mind. But he had stepped away from investigations for personal reasons and vanished into anonymity.
I didn't know where he was or how to reach him now.
But then I remembered something crucial: my father's diary.
He had been notoriously forgetful, always scribbling down names, dates, and numbers he couldn't risk forgetting.
That night, under the cover of silence, I crept into my late father's study. I couldn't let Melody or David catch me. Any slip-up around them invited unnecessary theatrics.
I rifled through his old belongings until I found the worn leather-bound diary. Clutching it tightly, I slipped back into my room and locked the door. Flipping through the yellowed pages, my eyes landed on a familiar name and a long-forgotten phone number.
Mr. Jones.
With a racing heart, I dialed the number and hoped for the best.
He picked up.
> "Oliver Jones speaking. How may I help you?"
> "Hello… this is Charlotte. Charlotte Rosewood. I'd like to meet you."
> "Charlotte? It's been years. But I won't agree to a meeting unless you tell me what this is about."
> "It's David. I need you to investigate him."
> "No. Why would you want to spy on your own brother?"
> "Because he's hiding something. I know he's a fraud—but I can't prove it. I need your help. Please."
There was a moment of silence.
> "Alright. I'll take the job. Once I gather concrete evidence, I'll meet you directly."
> "Thank you, Mr. Jones. I really appreciate this."
I ended the call, a small smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.
---
One Week Later
At precisely 3:00 AM, my phone rang, jarring me from sleep. The sharp vibration and shrill tone cut through the silence like a knife.
> "Who the hell is calling me at this godforsaken hour?"
Still half-asleep, I checked the caller ID.
Mr. Jones.
I picked up without hesitation.
> "Hello? Mr. Jones? Did you find anything?"
> "Yes. Your brother is absolutely inept at concealing his tracks. He's left behind enough evidence to bury himself."
> "So it's confirmed?"
> "It is. I'll meet you tomorrow at 7 PM and hand over the documentation."
> "Understood. Thank you."
He ended the call.
I set the phone down, heart pounding, mind racing.
> "finally ", I whispered to myself..this is where the real drama begins."