A boat horn sounds somewhere across the sound. Distant. Unimportant.

Y/n stands on the wraparound porch of the family estate—white columns, manicured hedges, a view of the water that cost more than most people will see in a lifetime. The Gulfstream idles at the private airstrip a quarter mile inland, ready to take her father to some meeting she wasn't briefed on.

Inside, through the open French doors, her father's voice carries. Low. Measured. A phone call he didn't take in his study.

The archives are in the east wing study. Dusty. Locked. Usually reserved for tax attorneys and estate auditors.

But the way he said it—sealed—catches. Stays.