The mansion buzzed with a quiet intensity as the looming court date drew closer. Every room seemed to echo with whispers of plans, schemes, and counterattacks. I could feel the tension crackling in the air like a brewing storm. The weight of everything—my mother's legacy, my claim to the estate, and the truth about the Blackwoods—hung over me like a sword, ready to drop.
Damien and I had locked ourselves in the study for most of the morning, sifting through piles of evidence. Folders, contracts, and photographs were spread across the desk in a chaotic array. We were chasing threads, piecing together years of deception and betrayal into a coherent case that might finally bring justice.
"We need to focus on the forged documents first," Damien said, his voice clipped with concentration. He leaned over the desk, his fingers tracing the edges of a faded letter. "If we can prove your mother's will was tampered with, it discredits their entire argument."
