Some moments don’t feel real while you’re living them, like time has shifted just slightly out of place

The old man’s words lingered in my mind like a physical weight as I drove back to the estate. Ask your father. It sounded less like advice and more like a warning. But Victor Sterling didn’t answer questions; he commanded obedience. If I wanted the truth, I wouldn’t get it by asking. I would have to find it where he kept his secrets.

And Victor Sterling kept his secrets in the study.

The house was quiet when I returned. The grand grandfather clock in the foyer chimed ten times, its deep resonance echoing through the high-ceilinged hallways. I crept up the stairs, my footsteps silent on the thick Persian runner, and made my way toward the heavy oak door at the end of the eastern corridor.

The study was off-limits. Even during daylight hours, cleaning staff were forbidden from entering without Victor present. The door was locked, fitted with a modern electronic keypad that required a six-digit code.

I stood before the keypad, my fingers hovering over the plastic buttons. I didn’t know the code. But I knew Victor—his mind was orderly, calculated, and arrogant. He didn't use random combinations; he used dates of significance. Our birthdays. The anniversary of the company.

I punched in my mother’s birthday. Access Denied. I tried my own birthday. Access Denied. I tried the year Sterling Enterprises was founded.

A sharp green light flashed, and the heavy lock clicked open.

I pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind me. The room smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and polished mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with thick ledgers and leather-bound volumes. A large mahogany desk sat beneath a tall arched window overlooking the moonlit gardens.

I didn't waste time. I went straight for the desk. The top drawers contained standard office supplies, checkbooks, and correspondence from business associates. Nothing unusual. I ran my hands along the underside of the desk drawer, searching for a false bottom or a secondary latch.

Nothing.

Frustration crept in, tightening my chest. I turned my attention to the bookshelves. I scanned the spines, looking for anything out of place. Most were historical texts, economic treaties, and legal journals. Then, tucked away on the bottom shelf behind a row of heavy legal encyclopedias, my fingers brushed against something metallic.

I knelt down and pulled it out.

It was a heavy, steel lockbox, covered in a thin layer of dust. It didn't have a digital keypad; it had a traditional keyhole. I tried lifting the edge of the large desk blotter upstairs—no key there. I searched the drawers again, more frantically this time. In the back of the bottom-right drawer, wedged into a tight crevice, was a small brass key.

My hands shook as I carried the lockbox to the desk and inserted the key. It turned with a crisp, mechanical click.

I lifted the lid.

Inside were no financial documents, no deeds to properties, no corporate secrets. Just a single manila folder, tied with a faded red ribbon, and a collection of old photographs.

I untied the ribbon and opened the folder. The top document was an official hospital birth record from Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital, dated twenty-two years ago.

My breath hitched.

I read the text under the heading Live Births: Sterling, Claire. Date of Birth: October 14. Time: 02:14 AM. Multiple Gestation: Twins. Child A: Male. Weight: 6 lbs 4 oz. Healthy. Child B: Male. Weight: 5 lbs 11 oz. Healthy.

Two children. Twins.

I stared at the paper, the words blurring together. My mother was right. She had given birth to twins. But the record didn't stop there. Below the birth entries, attached with a rusted metal staple, was a second document—an adoption relinquishment form, signed in bold, sharp handwriting that I recognized instantly.

Victor’s signature.

The reason listed for relinquishment was chilling: Family circumstances, sole custody retention for primary heir.

Beneath the paperwork lay the photographs. I picked them up one by one. They were polaroids, slightly faded at the edges. The first showed Claire in a hospital bed, looking exhausted but radiant, holding two tiny swaddled bundles against her chest. Both babies had tufts of dark hair.

The next photograph showed Victor standing in a sterile hospital corridor, talking to a man in a dark coat—a man whose face was obscured by shadow.

And the final photograph... made my blood run cold. It was taken outside, years later, grainy and shot from a distance. It showed a small boy, perhaps six or seven years old, wearing oversized clothes, standing near the edge of the industrial district. He looked thin, vulnerable, and completely alone.

He had my face.

Liam.

"You shouldn't have been looking, Evan."

A voice cut through the silence of the room, so sudden and cold that I dropped the photograph, my heart leaping into my throat.

I spun around.

Victor stood in the doorway, the heavy oak door pushed wide open. He wasn't yelling. His face was an absolute mask of terrifying calm, his eyes fixed on the open lockbox and the papers scattered across his desk.