Brandon's POV
The study hadn't changed.
Not really.
The same dark mahogany bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, lined with leather-bound books my father claimed he'd read twice. The same antique globe stood in the corner beneath the window, gathering more dust than attention. The grandfather clock against the far wall continued its relentless ticking, each swing of the pendulum echoing through the silence like a heartbeat I couldn't escape.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I stood in the middle of the room, hands shoved deep into my pockets, trying to ignore the memories clawing their way back to the surface.
The last time I'd been here, I had stormed in looking for answers.
Answers about Billy Hawkins.
About Dad.
About the affair.
About everything that had shattered our family.
Instead, I'd walked away with even more questions.
My gaze drifted to the small picture frame resting on the polished mahogany desk.
Grandpa Ross.
Dad.
Billy Hawkins.
