"Think about it," Lucas said, his eyes boring into mine. "The accident. Your father’s bankruptcy. The scandal. All of it connects back to him."
I felt the air leave my lungs. "That’s not possible," I said weakly. "Nathaniel had nothing to do with any of that."
"You sure about that?" Lucas pushed, his tone unrelenting. He reached into the envelope again and pulled out a final piece—a letter. "Read this."
My fingers trembled as I unfolded the paper. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the words were unmistakable.
"Payment received. Blackthorn confirms target acquisition. Nathaniel S. has approved final stages—M. L."
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. My vision blurred as the words burned into my mind.
"He used Blackthorn to destroy your family," Lucas said, his voice softer now but no less cutting. "And now you’re letting him into your life like nothing ever happened."
Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "Why are you doing this, Lucas? Why now?"
"Because you deserve the truth," he said simply. "Even if it hurts."
I stared at him, my heart caught between disbelief and rage. Was this true? Could Nathaniel really have orchestrated everything? The man I thought I hated but somehow couldn’t stop trusting?
"You’re lying," I whispered again, but it sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"You know I’m not," Lucas said grimly.
I shoved the photos and letter back into the envelope, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
"I need time," I said, standing abruptly. "I need to think."
"Tiffany," Lucas called after me, but I didn’t turn around.
The cold night air slapped my face as I stepped outside. My thoughts raced, tangled in a web of fear and uncertainty. If what Lucas said was true, then Nathaniel wasn’t just my enemy—he was my family’s destroyer.
And I had no idea what to do next.
“You think you know him, don’t you?”
The question came from a child’s voice, high-pitched but steady. I turned toward the sound, startled to find little Clara, no older than seven, staring up at me with those piercing blue eyes.
She held a sketchbook in her tiny hands, smudges of charcoal marking her fingers.
“Know who?” I asked, crouching to meet her eye level.
Clara shrugged, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Mr. Nathaniel. He’s nice, but sometimes... he’s not.”