My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, juxtaposed against four pint-sized carbon copies. The gesture—that unconscious habit of dragging my left hand behind my neck whenever I felt cornered or deep in thought—was entirely, uniquely mine. At least, I had always believed it was.

November brought biting cold winds and the official start of my father’s federal trial. The courtroom was packed with journalists, legal analysts, and financial reporters documenting the final nail in the coffin of the Voss corporate dynasty.

I sat on the witness stand for three grueling hours, detailing every shell company, every falsified ledger, and every forced coercion tactic my father had used over the past decade—including the night Clara was driven out of Boston.

When I stepped down from the stand, Arthur glared at me with pure venom from the defense table, his lips moving in a silent, hateful curse.

That evening, after returning to our Cambridge home, the sense of security we had carefully built was suddenly shattered.

I was in my study reviewing architectural blueprints for the new community center when my phone buzzed on the desk.

An unknown number.

I swiped and answered. "Hello?"

"You think you won, Julian?" a distorted, electronic voice hissed through the speaker.

My blood ran cold. "Who is this?"

"Your father’s empire wasn't built by one man. He had partners. People who don't care about federal courtrooms or prison sentences. You and your little family stepped on a lot of toes, Mr. Voss. Enjoy your cozy house in Cambridge while it lasts."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stood up instantly, my heart pounding against my ribs, and walked quickly down the hall to the children's bedroom. The door was cracked open. Inside, Julian, Leo, Sebastian, and Mason were sleeping soundly in their beds, tangled in blankets, breathing softly.

Clara walked up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, sensing the sudden tension in my frame. "What is it, Julian?"