I remained rooted in place, staring at the documents scattered across my father's desk. Each piece of paper felt like a shard of glass, cutting through the image i had of my father as a noble man wronged by forces beyond his control. My hands trembled as i flipped through the pages, piecing together the story we told. The dates, the signatures, the language—it was all there, undeniable and damning.
I was still clutching one of the letters when i heard the sound of footsteps behind me. Startled, i turned to see Michael standing in the doorway, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. He must have rushed over after their phone call.
"Isabella," he said softly, stepping into the room. His eyes scanned the desk, taking in the mess of papers and the anguish etched across her face. "You weren't kidding. This is... a lot."
