The sleek, minimalist office felt like a gilded cage. Outside, the distant, muffled thrum of the chanting protesters served as a constant reminder that my world was burning. Inside, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the sound of my own shallow breathing.
I stood by the desk, staring down at the document pinned beneath my trembling fingers. It was an official, stamped pathology report from Saint Jude’s Hospital—the very same institution where I had faithfully paid for my former father-in-law's treatment. I had used every resource at my disposal, spent millions on private investigators, and pulled every high-level corporate favor I owed to intercept these records before they could be sealed or altered.
I had been so certain. I had been entirely, fiercely convinced that the blood
