Chapter 6: The Truth About Her Father
I live the rest of my life in pain. My days in his house are horrible but somehow he decides my sufferings are not enough. slam the drawer shut harder than I mean to.
Today we are arguing about something else when he brings my father into it.
“You don't even know who your father is.” he shoots back at something I say. The sound of his voice echoes through the cold marble of Adrian’s office, sharp and final, like the gavel of a judge condemning me. My hands tremble against the polished wood.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I snap, spinning on him.
He’s seated behind his desk, perfectly calm, perfectly smug, like a king on his throne. “What do I keep doing?”
“Digging, twisting, trying to poison me against my own blood? What do you get out of this, Adrian? Do you enjoy watching me break?”
His eyes flick up, dark and steady. “Break? No. I enjoy watching you resist the truth. It’s fascinating. It's like watching someone clutch a burning rope because they’d rather burn than let go.”
“You don’t know my father,” I fire back. My voice shakes, but I force it to rise. “You don’t know the man who raised me, who sacrificed everything for me. He wasn’t perfect, but I love him. He—”
Adrian cuts me off with a quiet laugh. It isn’t cruel, not exactly, but it chills me. “Sacrifice? Is that what you call it?”
I fold my arms, trying to shield myself. “Yes. He kept us afloat after my mother died. He worked himself sick to keep our house. He gave me everything.”
Adrian leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “No, Samora. He gave you illusions. He kept and protected you from the truth. Let me show you what he gave everyone else.”
Before I can answer, he reaches into a locked drawer and pulls out a thick folder. The sound of the clasp opening makes my stomach knot. He places it on the desk between us.
I don’t move. “What is that?”
“Evidence,” he says simply. He pushes it toward me. “Your father’s real legacy.”
I laugh, but the sound is brittle, almost hysterical. “You forged this. You’re capable of anything. You probably typed it all up last night just to get under my skin.”
He doesn’t rise to my accusation. He just slides the first sheet free and lays it flat. A bank record. Numbers everywhere. My father’s name is at the top. Withdrawals in sums that make my head spin.
I shake my head. “No. He never—”
Adrian interrupts, voice low and deliberate. “Read.”
The second page lands on top of the first. Court documents. Embezzlement charges filed against his company years ago. My father’s signature glaring back at me in black ink.
“No…” My throat tightens. “That’s not real. You—”
He drops the third sheet: an email printout. The sender’s name is unmistakable. My father. The words sting like acid: desperate promises, begging for extensions, excuses about debts, mentions of gambling losses.
The room spins. I grip the edge of the desk. “Stop.”
Adrian doesn’t stop. He lays another page, and another. Pictures of checks. Letters from lawyers. Silent, damning witnesses.
Finally, he pauses. His gaze pins me where I stand. “Still think I forged them all?”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink furiously, refusing to let them fall. “You could have. You control everything. You could have paid someone—”
“Samora,” he says my name like a verdict. “I don’t need to forge anything. The truth is ugly enough.”
My chest heaves. I want to scream, to claw at his face, to rip those papers to shreds. Instead, my voice comes out as a whisper. “You’re lying. You have to be lying.”
“Look closer,” Adrian says. He rises, walks around the desk, and places a page directly in front of me. His shoulder brushes mine—too close, suffocating. He taps the signature at the bottom. “That’s your father’s handwriting. You know it.”
My vision blurs. It is. I know it instantly. The looping S, the sharp R. I used to watch him sign my school forms with that same hand.
I stagger back. “No. He… he wouldn’t do this to us. He loved me.”
Adrian’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it hardens. “He loved himself more. He gambled with everything he touched. He ruined other families to keep the illusion of yours alive. Your father is far from being a saint.”
My breath shudders out of me. The floor feels like it’s tilting.
He watches me silently for a moment before speaking again, voice quiet but merciless. “Your father wasn’t a victim, Samora. He wasn’t noble. He was weak. And weak men destroy everything they touch.”
I cover my ears. “Shut up. Just shut up!”
But his words are already inside me, burrowing like glass splinters.
“Face it,” Adrian presses. “I didn’t ruin him. He ruined himself. All I did was clean up his mess.”
I drop into the nearest chair, clutching my head. The papers stare at me from the desk like ghosts.
Adrian’s shadow looms over me. His voice is cold, businesslike. “You should thank me. If not for me, you’d have nothing. No house, no dignity, no safety net. I took over so you could still have your comfortable lies. You’re welcome.”
Something inside me snaps. I look up at him, eyes burning. “You took everything from me. My family. My freedom. And now… even the truth.”
The words hang between us like smoke. His jaw flexes, unreadable.
Silence. Just the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
I can’t breathe in this room. I can’t breathe with him staring at me like that. I stumble to my feet, shove past him, and bolt toward the door.
But his hand slams against the wood before I can pull it open. His body cages mine against it. His breath warms the side of my face.
“Running won’t change the truth,” he murmurs. “You can’t escape it. Or me.”
I whirl on him, chest heaving, face inches from his. “Watch me try.”