Brandon's POV
That night, after gaming with Seth, I found myself creeping down the east hallway like a thief in my own home.
Everyone was asleep. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge down the hall and the muffled brush of my socks against the thick Persian rug.
I wasn't looking for anything specific—just something to make things add up. A sign. A crack. A hidden truth. Anything. With Mum and Dad returning the next day, this felt like my last shot.
Dad's study had always been off-limits. The kind of off-limits that felt sacred and untouchable. The door to the study has seen more locks than most prison cells.
But he had a weakness—his obsession with routine.
Weeks ago, I'd seen him from the upstairs balcony storming out on a call. He was flustered, in a rush, and didn't think anyone was watching. He bent beside the potted fern by the hallway cabinet and tucked something underneath.
I'd seen him do it again. And again.
