(Angela’s POV)
I stood frozen for a moment, the cool air in my office gliding across my skin like a ghost from the past—faint, familiar, and almost mournful.
My gaze dropped back to the envelope in my hand—sealed, fragile, and strangely pale beneath the overhead light. The handwriting on it was faint and slanted, like it had been written in a hurry.
Angela, open this only when you're ready.
I stared at the words for a long beat. My chest tightened.
When I’m ready?
What does that even mean anymore?
Ready to confront the fact that the woman I buried three years ago had never truly left this world?
Ready to accept that my father's death—the one I’d mourned in silence and strength—might not have been an accident after all?
Ready to face the monstrous truth that someone within my own
