The apartment was deathly quiet after the front door clicked shut. My mother’s venomous parting words still hung in the air, but they were nothing compared to the cold weight settling in my chest. Savannah was in our bedroom, the door closed, likely curled up in the dark.

I carried the envelope upstairs to Savannah’s executive office.

She was sitting behind her glass desk, reviewing quarterly financial projections, her hair catching the golden afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I dropped the thick manila envelope onto her desk.

She looked up, raising an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"Victor Vance's parting gift," I said, pulling up a chair opposite her. "Apparently, Bernice had one last card she thought she could play if things went south."

Savannah sliced the top of the envelope open with a silver letter opener, sliding out a stack of aged, yellowed documents covered in handwriting that wasn't my mother's—it was my late father's.

We both leaned in, reading the handwritten pages.

It wasn't a blackmail file. It wasn't a record of debt or corporate sabotage.

It was a letter, dated twenty-five years ago, written by my father to a trusted family lawyer in Sacramento.

To whomever reads this after my passing: If Bernice’s paranoia and controlling nature ever cross the line into harming our son or anyone he loves, I want this document made public. She is not the sole owner of the estate holdings; she has a psychological dependency on dominance that will eventually destroy everything she touches. Protect Christopher. He has a good heart, but he inherits my blindness to her toxicity. Give him the tools to stand on his own.

My throat tightened. A heavy, bittersweet wave of emotion washed over me. Even in death, my father had known. He had tried to warn me, setting up the safety nets that Savannah had ultimately uncovered and brought to light.

Savannah reached across the desk, placing her warm hand over mine.