The study smelled of old paper and the lingering scent of Adam’s scotch. Layla’s hand was on the cold brass handle, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Every shadow in the room felt like a witness to her betrayal.
She stepped inside. The moonlight through the tall windows hit the mahogany desk, illuminating the silver laptop and the leather-bound folder containing the codes her father desperatey needed.
"I’m sorry, Adam," she whispered to the empty room. "I’m so sorry."
She reached for the folder, her fingers trembling so hard she could barely grip the paper. She pulled out her phone, the screen glowing like a beacon of guilt. Just one photo. That was all it would take to save her father’s life.
She hovered the camera over the document. Her finger stayed on the shutter button, frozen
