Nathan barely slept.

He paced the study, his collar open, his hair disheveled.

He refused to take his mother’s calls, ignoring the constant vibration of his phone.

I watched him from the doorway, holding a cup of untouched tea.

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot.

“Marcus found it,” he said quietly.

I set the tea on his desk and sat in the leather chair opposite him.

“What did he find?” I asked.

He turned the laptop screen toward me.

“A trust fund,” Nathan said. “Established in 1994 by my father.”

“It was meant for a girl named Emily Miller,” he said.

My name.

My breath caught in my chest.

“The trust was liquidated three months after it was created,” Nathan continued, pointing at the screen.

“By Eleanor’s personal attorney,” he said. “She used a forged signature from my father.”

“She took everything,” I whispered.

“She didn’t just take the money,” Nathan said, his voice cold.

“She hired a private security firm to track your mother to West Virginia.”

He scrolled down, showing me scanned documents of old correspondence.

The letters were dated from the year I was five.