Instead, it was a message from an unknown number.

I opened the image attachment, and my breath caught in my throat.

It was a photo of the secure archive room door downstairs.

The magnetic lock on the frame was glowing green, indicating it had been bypassed.

Beneath the photo was a single line of text.

*Tell your father his precious Riverfront blueprints are about to hit the market.*

I showed the screen to my father.

His face went pale as he stared at the glowing green light in the photo.

“He’s already inside the archives,” my father whispered.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

We stepped inside, the metal walls reflecting our tense, pale faces.

My father pressed the button for the basement level where the old paper archives were kept.

The elevator began its smooth, silent descent.

My heart hammered against my ribs, the tension in the small space rising with every passing second.

I gripped my father’s sleeve, feeling the strength in his arm.

He was still the same hardworking man who had taught me how to use a hammer, no matter how much wealth he actually possessed.