Page 67 of Oliver
My hands gripped the edge of the desk, white-knuckled. The words on the paper swam in front of my eyes, blurring with the weight of it.
They didn’t just steal from me.
They erased me.
Like I’d never been there at all.
Like I hadn’t called, hadn’t cared, hadn’t loved them enough to fight for them.
And part of me couldn't entirely deny the truth of it. I'd withdrawn after taking Emmet in, focused on protecting him, navigating my new role as his guardian. I'd left our grandfather vulnerable to the vultures at that church.
The final blow came when I found the timeline. The assets had been liquidated rapidly. The properties sold well below market value to Blessed Heritage LLC, whatever that was. The funds had disappeared into accounts I couldn't trace without a court order.
What hit hardest was the timestamp of the court ruling. The same day Alyssa had finally given up on me, on us. When my job at Foxy's became more than she could handle and she walked away. The day she'd told me I was the best thing that had ever happened to her, but even that wasn’t enough to spend a lifetime as second choice.
All because we were struggling for money that should have been ours all along.
I gathered the documents with shaking hands, making copies of everything. My carefully maintained composure was fracturing, hairline cracks spreading outward from a central point of impact.
I needed to think. To plan. To calculate the most efficient path forward.
Instead, I found myself at a bar three blocks from the county office, the documents spread across the dark wood in front of me.
Sip.
The bourbon burned. It didn’t help.
Sip.
Nothing.
I was still shaking. Still furious. Still hollow.
Sip.
Still nothing.
The rational part of my brain knew alcohol was a depressant, that it would only amplify my darker emotions, that this was a statistically predictable response to shock and betrayal. But the human part of me just wanted the pain to stop, the churning in my gut to ease, and the roaring in my ears to quiet.
I ordered another drink.
By the third bourbon, I'd begun sketching out a plan of action in my notepad. Legal options. Names of old contacts who might help. A timeline for pursuing justice.
By the fourth, the names blurred together, my handwriting deteriorating along with my focus.
Even drunk, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: Emmet could never know—not the magnitude of what had been stolen from us, not the depth of our parents' betrayal, and not how taking him under my wing played a pivotal role in my failure to secure the future he deserved.
My phone buzzed against the bar top. I squinted at the screen, struggling to bring it into focus.
Zahra.
My vision cleared instantly, adrenaline cutting through the alcohol haze. I looked at the time and realized with a jolt that she'd be back at the hotel by now. The bridal shower would be over.
I didn't think, I moved.
The barstool scraped against the floor as I lurched to my feet, my drink half-finished, the papers barely gathered in my hands before I was bolting for the door.
I came to Norman for this. For justice. For Emmet.
