RAMON
“I asked you a simple question,” I said, walking towards Richard. My fists were clenched at my sides, my heart pounding. “Did my mother try to kill Phoebe’s mother ?”
He didn’t even blink. He looked up slowly from the whiskey glass in his hand and set it down with a soft clink against the edge of the table together with the book he picked from the shelf. The sound was too calm. Too collected.
“You want to walk down that path, Ramon?” he asked. His voice was quiet but carried weight, like something sharp hidden under silk. “Really?”
“I want the truth,” I said firmly. “I deserve that much.”
His nostrils flared. He stood up slowly, fixing his cold gaze on me.
“You don’t deserve anything,” he said flatly. “Least of all, answers about a woman you barely remember.”
“That woman was my mother!”
“Then show some damn respect!” Richard snapped, slamming his fist hard on the desk. The force rattled the whiskey glass, sending it tipping onto its side and spilling amber liquid across a stack
