Asher’s POV
The morning sun barely touched the edges of the glass panels at the front of my club when the shouting began. I was in my office, reviewing the final preparations for the upcoming tournament, when an angry voice tore through the air outside like a storm.
“Asher Moretti! You cursed bastard! Where’s my daughter?”
My hand froze mid-motion, pen hovering over the paper. For a second, I thought I was imagining it. But the voice came again, louder, raw with fury.
I set the documents aside and pushed back my chair. Through the tinted hallway windows, I could already see a commotion forming at the club’s main entrance.
Papa stood outside, his face twisted with rage and grief. The veins on his neck bulged as he shouted, and his eyes looked red from sleepless nights. Security guards
