Alexander held the faded parchment tightly in his hand, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting for a second time. The air in the penthouse felt suddenly frigid, as if a winter storm had blown through the closed windows.
Clara remained on her knees by her father’s chair, staring blankly at the floor. Her mind was spinning. All her life, she had believed her mother was a quiet primary school teacher who had died of a tragic illness. She believed her roots were simple, humble, and ordinary.
"The Sterling-Cross bloodline..." Alexander spoke slowly, his deep voice heavy with suspicion. "Arthur, what does this mean? Who are these people?"
Arthur buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, shuddering breath. When he finally looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and filled with old terror
