I stared at the security footage playing on the large monitor, my heart pounding in my ears. The images told a story that shattered everything I thought I knew about my family's downfall.
It started with my father, Robert Sinclair, walking into his office late one night. He seemed nervous, glancing around furtively before sitting down at his desk. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and in stepped Oliver's father, Edward James. The two men spoke in hushed tones, their body language tense.
I leaned forward, straining to make out their conversation, but the audio was muffled. Then, Edward pulled a small device from his pocket and placed it on the edge of my father's desk. My father's expression shifted from worry to resignation, and he signed a stack of documents that Edward had br
