CHAPTER 5 — THE Visit

Sophie didn't play the recording right away.

She carried it home. Set it on her kitchen table. Looked at it for two days like it might do something bad if she touched it.

Because it might.

Whatever was on it would either match everything the letters had already told her, or break it all apart.

She didn't know which one scared her more.

On the third night, she finally pressed play.

There was a long stretch of quiet noise first. Then a breath. Then Adrian's voice, low and rough, not like anything she'd heard from him before.

"If you're hearing this, then I probably waited too long again."

Sophie's chest caved in.

"No," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. "Don't say that."

"I've rewritten this so many times. Deleted it. Started over. I don't know how to say the things I need to say, Sophie. I never have. That's always been the problem, hasn't it?"

Tears were already falling.

"I need you to know something, and I need you to believe it, even though I've given you no reason to. I loved you before I ever said a word to you. I loved you through every silence you thought meant I didn't care. I loved you the day you signed our contract, and I loved you the day you signed our divorce, and I will love you in whatever comes after this."

"I didn't know," she choked out. "I swear I didn't know, Adrian."

"There are people inside my own company who want me gone. I don't know exactly who yet. I have guesses, but no real proof. Not enough to act on."

She gripped the edge of the table, steadying herself.

"I let you go because I couldn't protect you and love you out loud at the same time. Not with them watching. Not with what they might do. I told myself it was the right choice. Most days I still believe that. Some nights I don't."

His voice cracked, just slightly.

"You should have told me," she whispered. "I would have stayed. I would have fought beside you."

"There's a hidden drive in the box with the letters. Everything I've found so far. Names. Money records. It's not enough to prove anything in court, but it's a place to start. Whitfield can help you, if you decide to look into it. I'd understand if you don't. You've already given this family enough. You don't owe me anything else."

"I don't care what I owe you," she said, her voice rising. "This was never about owing you anything."

"But if you do decide to look — please be careful. These aren't people who play fair. Whoever's coming after me won't stop there. They might come for you next, if they think you know anything."

She froze, cold fear settling over her grief.

"I'm sorry. For all of it. For every year I let you believe you weren't wanted, when the truth is I wanted you so much it scared me. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to finally hear the truth, even if I'm not there to say it to your face."

A long silence.

Then, very quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

"I love you, Sophie Bennett. I always have."

The recording ended.

Sophie sat frozen at her kitchen table, the device silent in her hands, tears sliding down her face without a sound.

"I love you too," she finally whispered into the empty apartment. "I love you too, and I never once said it. Not in three years. Not even at the end."

She sat there a long time. Long enough for the candle on her counter to burn all the way down. Long enough for the sharp pain in her chest to turn into something duller, something she knew she'd carry for a long time.

She wiped her face and reached for the letter box again, digging through what was left until her fingers found it — a small USB drive, taped to the underside of the lid, easy to miss unless you already knew to look.

She held it in her palm, her resolve growing stronger even as more tears fell.

Names. Money records. A place to start, he said.

She thought about Whitfield's warning. About the danger that might already be watching her.

She should have been afraid. She was afraid. But under the fear, something colder and steadier had started to settle in — something close to purpose.

"I owe you more than grief," she said quietly, standing up, wiping her face one last time. "I owe you the truth. And I'm not going to let them bury it with you."

She plugged the drive into her laptop, her hands steadier now.

The files loaded slowly. One folder after another. Money statements. Records of transfers. Names she didn't know yet, but had a feeling she soon would.

She was three folders in when a knock sounded at her apartment door.

She froze, every muscle locking at once.

It's almost midnight. I'm not expecting anyone. Whitfield would have called first.

The knock came again. Slow. Steady. Not rushed — patient, in a way that somehow felt worse than if someone had been pounding.

Sophie stood in the middle of her living room, laptop glowing behind her, and stared at the door like it might tell her who was standing there if she waited long enough.

It didn't.

A third knock followed. Softer this time.

Almost like whoever it was already knew she wasn't going anywhere, and had all the time in the world to wait.