Gabriel’s black sedan was idling by the curb, its wipers sweeping rhythmically across the windshield.

We drove through the rain-slicked streets in silence.

The city lights blurred against the glass.

When we arrived at his penthouse, the quiet of the high-rise felt like a different world.

The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the dark, restless expanse of Lake Michigan.

I sat on the gray leather sofa, still holding the envelope.

My hands were cold.

Gabriel handed me a glass of water and sat in the armchair opposite me.

“Take your time, Claire,” he said.

I ran my thumb along the wax seal of the letter.

This was the truth I had been denied for five years.

Outside, the rain drummed against the glass.

I broke the seal.

The paper was thick, smelling faintly of lavender and old dust.

My mother’s words began with a simple apology.

“My dearest Claire, if you are reading this, I am no longer here to protect you.”

I read the first few lines, my throat tightening as the depth of her sacrifice became clear.