Chương 5
Fragments that forced you to decide what kind of person you would become while putting them together.
When I left Walter’s office, I did not call my father.
I did not call Helena.
I drove home.
On the way, I stopped at a grocery store because I had forgotten to buy milk.
That was the strange thing about ordinary life.
You could discover your family had hidden decades of secrets and still need to remember whether you were out of coffee.
Inside the store, I stood in the dairy aisle longer than necessary.
A man beside me was arguing with his teenage son about buying the expensive cereal.
“Your mother said the regular one.”
“The regular one tastes like cardboard.”
“That’s because you’re fourteen.”
I almost smiled.
The argument was so normal.
So painfully normal.
I bought milk.
I bought coffee.
I bought the cheap cereal I always bought because my students constantly reminded me that teachers did not become rich from caring about education.
When I got home, there were three missed calls.
All from my father.
The fourth call came while I was putting groceries away.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then Victor said, “Where did you get those documents?”
No greeting.
No apology.
No question about whether I was okay.
Just fear disguised as anger.
I leaned against the counter.
“Hello to you too.”
“Do not do this.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you do not understand the damage you are causing.”
I looked around my apartment.
The small kitchen.
The old cabinets.
The life he had always considered beneath him.
“You mean the damage from telling the truth?”
His breathing changed.
A tiny pause.
Almost nothing.
But I noticed.
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“I’m starting to.”
“No, Sabrina.”
His voice lowered.
And for the first time in my life, I heard something underneath his anger.
Not confidence.
Fear.
“You are looking at pieces of something you do not understand.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“Then explain it.”
Silence.
A long one.
“I can’t do this over the phone.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Because there are things you deserve to hear from me.”
That sentence should have meant something.
Maybe years earlier, it would have.
But I had learned something important.
People often wanted private conversations when public consequences arrived.
They wanted understanding after they lost control.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
I almost refused.
Then I remembered Walter’s words.
Your father did not create this situation alone.
There were still pieces missing.
“Fine.”
He exhaled quietly.
“Come alone.”
I looked at the folder on my table.
At the evidence.
At the questions.
“I’ll decide who comes with me.”
His silence returned.
Then the line went dead.
I stood there holding the phone after he hung up.
The old Sabrina would have been hurt that he ended the conversation that way.
The new Sabrina noticed something else.
For once, Victor Prescott had asked me for something.
And for once, I was the person who got to decide whether he received it.
The next morning, I arrived at Prescott Holdings twenty minutes early.
I hated that I did that.
Even after everything, some part of me still believed being late would prove him right.
That I was careless.
That I was irresponsible.
That I did not belong in his world.
Old habits were stubborn.
The building rose above downtown like a monument to my father’s ambition.
Glass walls.
Polished stone.
A lobby where employees lowered their voices because they knew the person at the top could change their lives with a phone call.
I had visited the building only a handful of times.
Most of those visits were for family events.
I was always introduced as Victor Prescott’s daughter.
Never as Sabrina.
Never as a person separate from him.
The receptionist looked up when I walked in.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Victor Prescott.”
Her fingers paused over the keyboard.
She looked at my name on the visitor list.
Then back at me.
“Ms. Prescott?”
I nodded.
Something flickered across her face.
Recognition.
Not from meeting me.
From knowing the story.
That bothered me more than I expected.
News traveled quickly when powerful families had problems.
“His office is on the thirty-second floor,” she said.
“Someone will escort you.”
“I know where it is.”
She hesitated.
Then she smiled politely.
“Of course.”
The elevator ride was quiet.
A man in a navy suit stood beside me checking emails.
A woman held a coffee cup with both hands and stared at the numbers above the door.
Everyone looked busy.
Everyone had somewhere to be.
The elevator opened.
The executive floor smelled like expensive wood and fresh flowers.
A receptionist behind a large desk stood immediately.
“Mr. Prescott is expecting you.”
The words sounded strange.
Expecting me.
Not allowing me.
Not tolerating me.
Expecting me.
I walked down the hallway.
My father’s assistant, Daniel, opened the office door before I knocked.
I remembered him from childhood.
He had been working for my father since before my mother died.
He was always polite.
Always distant.
Today, he looked uncomfortable.
“Sabrina.”
“Daniel.”
He looked like he wanted to say something.
Instead, he stepped aside.
My father stood near the window.
The city stretched behind him.
For once, he did not look like the most powerful person in the room.
He looked older.
Not weak.
Never weak.
But tired.
“Sit down.”
I stayed standing.
His jaw tightened slightly.
The reaction was small.
Most people would have missed it.
I did not.
“You’re angry.”
I almost smiled.
“That’s what you noticed?”
“What do you want me to say?”
I looked at him.
The question sounded honest.
That was the problem.
My father had spent years hurting people without understanding why they were hurt.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Maybe something real.”
He looked away.
The silence between us felt unfamiliar.
Usually, he filled silence with criticism.
May you like
Today, he seemed afraid of it.
“You found documents from your mother.”
