Chapter Eighteen – The First Strike
Rebellion often begins not with a shout, but with a whisper of defiance hidden in plain sight.
Julia waited until Daniel left for work.
The house exhaled with silence, the echo of his shoes fading down the driveway.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Today couldn’t be wasted.
She moved quickly, barefoot across the floor, her ears straining for any sound.
Her first target: the study.
Daniel always kept it locked. But yesterday, she had noticed something—when he’d left in a hurry, he hadn’t twisted the key all the way back.
Now, with trembling fingers, she tried the handle.
It clicked open.
Her breath caught.
Inside, the air smelled of paper, cologne, and something sharper—like secrets preserved in dust.
She scanned the desk. Files. Receipts.
A d
