Zahra's
The air in Dimitri's study was thick with tension, the scent of polished wood and leather failing to mask the unease that had settled between us. The letter in my hands felt heavier than it should, its edges sharp against my fingers as if it could cut me. And maybe it already had.
I glanced up at Dimitri, whose piercing gaze was locked on the paper. His usual mask of indifference had slipped slightly, revealing a flicker of curiosity—and something else I couldn't quite place.
"Are you going to read it aloud, or should I guess what's inside?" he asked, his tone cool but edged with impatience.
I hesitated. The contents of the letter were personal, yet Dimitri was the only person I could turn to. He knew this world better than I did. If anyone could help me uncover the truth, it was him.
"It's from someone claiming to have known my mother," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "They said my real father isn't who I thought he was."
