You spent the entire drive here asking questions. Your parents gave nothing back. Just vague reassurances. Just tight smiles. Just the kind of silences that felt rehearsed.

Now you're standing in front of a conference room door on the forty-seventh floor of a building you've never been to before, and your mother won't look at you.

The room inside is all glass and steel and muted lighting. A long table dominates the center, surrounded by leather chairs. On one side, your father's business partners would normally sit. Today, the Prescott family is already there.

Across the table, Jennifer Prescott catches your eye and offers a small wave. She looks curious. Excited, even. Her father looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

The room suddenly feels much smaller.