The gray afternoon light made the gardens outside look washed out and lifeless.

“I prefer to stand, Mr. Croft,” I said, keeping my hands deep in my pockets to hide their trembling.

Croft let out a dry, rattling sigh that sounded like paper rubbing together.

He tapped the blue folder with a manicured index finger.

“Your father was a pragmatist, Daniel,” he said, his voice flat.

“He did what was necessary to protect the family name and the company’s future.”

“By lying to me?” I asked, turning to face him. “By forcing Claire into silence?”

Croft did not look away.

“By ensuring that the Whitmore line remained secure,” he replied.

He opened the blue folder, the crisp pages crackling in the quiet room.

I could see columns of numbers and legal stamps at the bottom of the sheets.

“This is the original trust agreement from thirty years ago,” Croft said.

“And this,” he added, pulling out a second, thinner document, “is the amendment your father signed two weeks before he died.”

I walked back to the desk, my eyes scanning the dense legal jargon.