“Nathan,” I whispered, reaching for his hand.

His fingers were ice cold.

“She meant it,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She will ruin everything my father built.”

“We can leave,” I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “We don’t need this house. We don’t need the money.”

Nathan looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t just about the money, Emily.”

He walked over to the mahogany bookshelf that lined the far wall.

He ran his fingers over the spines of the old leather books his father had collected.

“My father loved this company,” Nathan said, his voice growing stronger. “He built it with his own hands.”

He pulled a heavy, dust-covered ledger from the bottom shelf.

It was his father’s personal journal from thirty years ago.

“If I was adopted,” Nathan muttered, flipping through the yellowed pages, “there has to be a record of the agency.”

“Eleanor said it was private,” I said, watching him.

“Eleanor lies,” Nathan said.

He set the ledger on the desk and began to turn the pages rapidly.