“No.”
He shook his head.
“That can’t be right.”
The caller said something else.
Aaron slowly sat down.
“What do you mean the ownership records changed?”
Silence.
Then Aaron whispered:
“Who authorized it?”
The answer came.
His blood ran cold.
Because the signature wasn’t forged.
It was real.
And it belonged to Alyssa.
That evening, I arrived at my family’s estate.
My father was waiting in the library.
He stood beside the fireplace with a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand.
He looked older than he had that morning.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
When I entered, he didn’t ask whether I was all right.
He simply said:
“You finally stopped choosing him.”
I looked at him.
“I thought I was choosing love.”
My father sighed.
“No, sweetheart.”
