Johnathan Windsor's words echoed in my mind like thunder in a cathedral.
> "Ask yourself why Sophia never told you who your father was."
My fingers clenched around the leather strap of my bag. I didn't want to believe him — didn't want to give him the satisfaction. But I couldn't ignore the flicker of doubt in my gut.
James stormed out of the office first, eyes blazing. I followed, stunned, barely breathing.
The elevator doors closed between us and his father.
"What the hell was that?" I asked.
"He's trying to get in your head," James snapped. "Don't listen to him."
"But what if he's right?" I whispered.
He turned to me slowly. "You don't believe that."
"I don't know what to believe anymore, James!" My voice cracked. "What if my mother did hide things? What if she lied? What if everything I thought was truth… was just a story she wrote to protect me from something darker?"
James looked like he wanted to argue — but the storm in his eyes softened.
He stepped closer and took my hands.
"Even if she lied, it was to protect you. And that doesn't make your pain any less real. Or your story any less true."
I nodded, blinking back tears. "But I still need answers."
He kissed my forehead gently. "Then we'll find them together."
---
Back at the penthouse, we sat on the living room floor, the journal spread out before us like a sacred artifact.
"I never noticed this before," James said, pointing to a page near the back. "There's a different ink here. A different handwriting."
It was a single sentence.
Barely legible. But it sent chills through me.
> "He was never supposed to know the child lived."
James whispered, "Do you think she was talking about… your father?"
I swallowed hard.
"If she meant me… then maybe."
My stomach turned. "What if he was dangerous? What if that's why she ran?"
James nodded. "Then we'll find out who he is. And why she kept him a secret."
We scanned the journal again, looking for any name, any clue.
That's when we saw it.
Tucked at the bottom of a medical note:
> Initials: R.H.
James straightened. "That's not from the clinic we visited. That's from an older hospital. Before the adoption."
"Do you think it's a name?"
"Maybe. Or a code. Either way, I'll trace it."
Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
He glanced down — and froze.
"What is it?"
He turned the screen to me.
It was a live security alert.
Someone was trying to breach his private servers.
Someone was after the journal files.
James stood up immediately. "We need to move."
Before I could reply, the lights flickered.
Then the room went dark.