My phone buzzed at exactly 3 AM. Another anonymous email. My fingers trembled as I opened it, the blue light from my screen casting eerie shadows in my darkened bedroom at the James mansion.
The subject line read: "Your father knew."
I glanced at Oliver's sleeping form beside me, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The guilt of investigating him while sharing his bed gnawed at me, but I had to know the truth.
Opening the attachment, I recognized my father's distinctive handwriting immediately. The scanned page was dated three months before our company's collapse:
"Met with Richard James today. His proposal seems too good to be true. Oliver was there - that young man has his father's shrewd eyes. Something feels off about the whole arrangement. The numbers don't add up, but w
