For months, I had watched my mother and grandfather treat my father like trash.

They made him clean their gutters, paint their walls, and fix their plumbing while they spent his money.

Now, the truth was out, and the game had changed.

I zipped up my bag and ran back downstairs.

My father was waiting by the front door, wearing his canvas work jacket.

He looked like the handyman he had pretended to be, but his eyes were those of a CEO.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I said.

We walked out to his old work truck.

The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the streetlights.

He started the engine, and the truck rumbled to life.

We drove through the quiet streets of the Columbus suburb, heading toward the downtown skyline.

The tall glass towers of the city loomed ahead in the dark.

My father parked the truck in the executive garage beneath the Whitaker Construction building.

We took the private elevator up to the top floor.

The office was dark and quiet, except for the security lights casting long shadows across the carpet.