Brandon's POV
The aftermath of a storm is never loud. It doesn't roar like the wind or crash like the thunder; it sits heavy and suffocating, waiting in the damp, ruined silence.
For three weeks after the gavel fell, that silence lived in the corners of the Ross estate.
During the trial, when the court was still in session and the lawyers were flinging accusations across the aisle, there had been an illusion of hope. It was a foolish, desperate thing, but it was there—the subconscious belief that somehow, when the dust settled, the nightmare would end and our family would somehow snap back into shape. But hope died the moment the prison doors clicked shut behind my mother.
Now, the reality was stark, cold, and real. There was no going back. The grand, marble-floored mansion on the hill had stopped being a home; it was just a gilded mausoleum where three broken men wandered around, trying not to collide with one another's grief.
