I pointed to the photocopy of the delivery receipts attached to the back of the stack.

The signature was the same on every page: a sharp, elegant *V. Sterling*.

“I kept the copies,” I said. “I kept them in a safety deposit box because I knew one day you would need to see the truth.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper, but he didn’t take it.

He looked like a man watching his entire life crumble around him.

“Seven years,” he whispered.

“She stole our family, Alexander,” I said. “And she’s coming to take the boys now.”

The elevator at the end of the garage suddenly hummed to life.

The cables groaned behind the concrete shaft.

The digital floor indicator above the door began to change, counting down from the penthouse.

We both froze, watching the numbers light up one by one.

The garage was silent except for the drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the dark.

The elevator bell chimed, a cheerful, electronic sound that felt entirely out of place.

The heavy metal doors began to slide open.