LOGINZoe
The file sits on Liam's desk like a loaded gun. Black leather. Thick. Heavy. The truth my mother's life was traded for. The truth Liam's father died for. I have not touched it. I am afraid that if I do, it will burn me. Liam is standing by the window, his back to me. The morning light catches his shoulders, but it does not warm him. He looks like a man carved from stone. "Open it," he says. "Liam—" "Open it, Zoe. You deserve to know what you have been fighting for." I reach for the file. My fingers tremble. The leather is cold and smooth, like the skin of a snake. I opened it, names, dates, and transactions. A web of lies so thick it could choke the sun. I recognize some of the names – politicians, businessmen, and people I have seen on television. Others are strangers, ghosts, and shadows. And at the centre, a photograph. Victor Kane. Younger. Smiling. Standing next to a man with Liam's eyes. "Your father," I say. "Yes." Liam turns to face me. "He trusted Victor. He loved him like a brother. And Victor sold him for money." "How do you know?" "Because the file contains everything. The payments. The emails. The night my father died, Victor was supposed to be with him." Liam's voice cracks. "He was late because he was making sure the trap was set." I close the file. The weight of it presses against my chest. "What are you going to do?" "Use it. Burn them all." "And Evelyn?" "She is in custody. But she is not the end. She was never the end." He walks toward me and takes the file from my hands. "There are others. People are higher than her. People who have been operating in the shadows for decades." I think about my mother, lying in a hospital bed with tubes in her arms. I think about the black mark that is spreading toward her heart. I think about the clock that is still ticking. "Three days," I say. "That is what Evelyn gave us."We have more than that now. Victor is talking. He is giving us names."And my mother?" Liam sets the file down and cups my face. His thumbs brush my cheeks. "She is safe. Marcus moved her to a private facility. No one knows where she is. Not even me." "Not even you?" "Not even me." He kisses my forehead. "It is the only way to keep her safe." I want to cry. I want to scream. But the tears do not come, and the scream is stuck in my throat. "What do we do now?" I ask. "Now we wait. Waiting is a kind of torture. I sit by the window, watching the city change colours as the sun climbs higher. Liam is on the phone, his voice low, his words clipped. He is building an army of lawyers and investigators. I do not understand half of what he is saying. I do not need to. I just need my mother to live. My phone buzzes, and a message from an unknown number. I know where she is. My blood turns to ice. I stare at the screen, my hands shaking. Who is this? Someone who can help you. Meet me at the café. Alone. I look at Liam. He is still on the phone, his back to me. I should tell him. I should show him the message. But something stops me. An old, familiar voice, the voice of a woman who has been surviving her whole life. Do not trust anyone. I slip the phone into my pocket and stand. "Liam." He turns. "What is it?"I need some air. I am going for a walk." His eyes narrow. "Zoe—" "I will be back in an hour. I promise." He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods. "Marcus will go with you, no. I need to be alone." "Then you are not going." We stare at each other. A silent war. "Fine," I say. "Marcus can come. But he stays outside." "Agreed." The café is the same one where I first met Evelyn. It smells of burnt coffee and old rain. The booths are worn, and the windows are steamed. Marcus is waiting in the car, his eyes on the door. I sit in the corner and wait. A woman approaches. She is older, gray-haired, with a face carved by worry. She sits across from me and folds her hands on the table. "You are Zoe," she says. "Who are you?" "Someone who loved Liam's father." She pauses. "Someone who wants to help." "Help with what?" She reaches into her bag and pulls out a flash drive – small, black, unmarked. "This is the real file. Not the one Victor gave you. Not the one Evelyn wanted." She sets it on the table. "This is everything. The names of the people at the top. The ones who have been hiding for decades." I stare at the drive. "Why are you giving this to me?" "Because Liam is too close. He can not see what is right in front of him." She stands. "And because his father would have wanted him to live. Not to die chasing ghosts." She walks away. I sit there, the flash drive in my hand, my heart pounding. Tick-tock, the game is not over. It has only just begun. And now, I have a choice. Trust Liam. Or trust the ghost of a woman who claims to love him. I slip the drive into my pocket. And I do not tell him.ZoeThe nursery walls are the colour of fresh cream, soft and warm, catching the afternoon light that spills through the window like liquid gold. I stand in the centre of the room, my hands resting on my stomach, watching Liam wrestle with the crib instructions spread across the floor like a paper puzzle he is determined to solve. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, and I bite back a smile as he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse."You know," I say, my voice light, "you could ask for help."He looks up, a screwdriver clutched in one hand, his dark hair falling across his forehead. "I am not asking for help. I am winning.""You are losing.""I am strategizing."I laugh, the sound filling the empty room, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the sun filtering through the glass. This is what we have built. This is what we have fought for. A home. A family. A future.Eleanor appea
Liam The wooden box sits on the table between us, its surface worn smooth by years of handling, its contents finally at rest. I trace the edge of the lid with my finger, feeling the grain of the wood, the small imperfections that tell the story of its journey. Inside are the letters, the photographs, the fragments of a past that no longer hold power over us. Zoe is beside me, her hand resting on the box, her grey eyes fixed on the closed lid. She does not speak, but I feel the weight of her presence, the quiet strength of her companionship. We have been through so much together, have carried so many burdens, and have uncovered so many secrets. And now, we are finally ready to set them down. "Liam," she says, her voice soft. "What happens now?" I turn to look at her, at the woman who has become my reason, my purpose, my home. "Now we live. We build. We choose who we want to be." She meets my gaze, her grey eyes steady. "And who do you want to be?" I reach out and take her hand, m
ZoeThe flour dusts my fingers like fine snow as I press my palms into the soft dough, folding and turning, feeling the elasticity build beneath my touch. The kitchen is warm, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, and the scent of yeast and woodsmoke mingles in the air. Outside the window, the garden stretches toward the grey sky, its bare soil waiting for the seeds we have not yet planted.Eleanor sits at the table, her needles clicking a steady rhythm, a half-finished blanket pooling in her lap. She has been knitting for weeks now, working on something she refuses to describe. I have stopped asking. Some mysteries are better left unsolved until they are ready to be revealed."You have a gentle hand," she says, her gaze fixed on her work. "Your grandmother had the same touch. She could make bread rise with nothing but patience and warmth."I smile, shaping the dough into a smooth ball. "I never knew her.""She would have loved you." Eleanor looks up, her grey eyes soft. "She would
LiamThe silence in the cottage is not the same as it was before. It is not heavy with secrets or choked with things left unsaid. It is the silence of two people who have finally stopped running, who have laid their cards on the table and are learning to breathe again.I sit at the table, the letters spread before me like a map of a past I never knew existed. The ink is faded, the paper worn, but the words are still sharp, still cutting. My father's handwriting. Eleanor's handwriting. Two people who loved each other and kept it hidden from everyone, even from themselves.I trace the curve of a letter, my finger following the path of his pen. He wrote with urgency, the words pressed deep into the paper as if he was afraid they would not be read.If you are reading this, I am already gone. I am sorry for the secrets. I am sorry for the lies. I am sorry I could not protect you.I fold the letter and set it aside. The weight of it is small, but the weight of its meaning is not.Zoe is sle
ZoeThe letters lie scattered across the table, their edges soft and worn, their ink faded to the colour of dried blood. I pick one up, my fingers trembling, and I read the words my mother wrote decades ago, words she never had the courage to speak aloud. Each sentence is a fragment of a life I never knew existed, a story buried beneath layers of silence and regret.Liam sits across from me, his dark eyes fixed on the letters, his hands clasped in front of him. He has not spoken since we began reading, but I feel the weight of his presence, the quiet strength of his companionship.I fold the letter and set it aside. The paper is warm from my hands, as if the words themselves still carry the heat of the woman who wrote them."She loved him," I say. "Your father. She loved him."Liam nods, a slow, almost imperceptible movement. "And he loved her."I look down at the stack of letters, at the evidence of a love that was never meant to be discovered. "They kept it hidden. They kept it from
LiamThe photograph trembles in my grip, its edges worn smooth by years of handling, its surface creased with the memory of countless fingers. I stare at the image, at the woman standing in the garden, her hand resting on the shoulder of the young girl beside her. Eleanor. Zoe. They are smiling, their faces bright with a joy I have never seen in either of them.But it is not the women who hold my attention. It is the figure in the background, barely visible through the foliage, his face half-obscured by shadow. I know that posture. I know the way he stands, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. I have seen it in my own reflection, in the mirror that hangs in the hallway of my childhood home.My father."Liam?" Zoe's voice cuts through the silence. "What is it?"I look up, my dark eyes meeting her grey ones. "Your mother knew my father. She knew him well."The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. Zoe takes the photograph from my hands, her fingers brushin







