“It has everything to do with them,” she stated solemnly.
I walked back over and sat down in the visitor’s chair.
Sylvia folded her hands neatly over her blanket.
“When I was auditing the land transfers, I discovered a forgotten legal clause in your grandfather’s original founding charter,” she explained. “The clause explicitly states that the Montgomery Community Trust cannot be sold, merged, or dissolved unless the next direct heir accepts full responsibility for the decision.”
“I am not the primary heir to the corporation yet,” I noted.
“You automatically become the primary heir the moment your father steps down from his position,” she pointed out.
“My father has no intention of stepping down anytime soon,” I countered.
“He is stepping down tomorrow morning at eight o’clock,” she revealed flatly.
I stared at her in complete shock.
“My father is announcing his retirement tomorrow?” I asked, stunned.
“Not a standard retirement, but a complete structural transition of power,” she corrected.
“How could you possibly know about an internal board meeting?” I asked suspiciously.
“Because that transition meeting was officially placed on the executive calendar seven months ago,” she answered calmly.
“Seven months ago,” I repeated, processing the timeline.
“Precisely three days before our divorce settlement was finalized in court,” she added pointedly.
I stood up again, completely unable to remain seated as the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together.
“What was our divorce supposed to accomplish for them legally?” I asked, my voice rising slightly.
Sylvia looked up at me with profound sadness in her eyes.
“It was engineered to separate you from the family business long enough for your father to execute the asset transfer without requiring your signature,” she revealed gently.
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh that echoed in the quiet room.
“That makes zero sense legally, Sylvia. I was not even a voting member of the executive board.”
“You were explicitly named as the primary custodian in your grandfather’s succession documents,” she explained clearly.
I froze in my tracks.
My grandfather, Elias Montgomery, had passed away when I was twenty-four years old.
I vividly remembered sitting in a sunlit legal office while a lawyer read his extensive last will and testament.
My father had sat beside me, looking visibly annoyed by the length of the meeting.
I had been granted corporate shares, a real estate property, and what my grandfather referred to as a sacred moral obligation to protect the company’s integrity.
At the time, I had dismissed the moral obligation phrase as mere sentimental rambling from an old man.
All the actual legal paperwork had been handled exclusively by my father’s corporate attorneys.
I had simply signed my name on the lines indicated by the legal team without reading the fine print.
“I was never shown any specific succession clause regarding the charitable division,” I admitted quietly.
“Your father went to great lengths to ensure you never saw that clause,” Sylvia noted softly.
She reached over to her bedside table, picked up a folded piece of paper, and held it out to me.
Her hand trembled slightly from physical weakness as she offered it.
I took the paper from her and unfolded it carefully.
At the top of the page was the embossed seal of Montgomery Enterprises’ original charter.
Beneath the seal, written in dense legal terminology, was a clause designating the eldest direct descendant as the ultimate custodian of the charitable trust if the parent corporation ever attempted to dissolve it.
My full legal name was typed clearly in the center of the paragraph.
Alexander Elias Montgomery.
“This document could easily be a sophisticated forgery,” I noted defensively, staring at the text.
“It could be,” Sylvia agreed calmly. “That is precisely why the verified original charter is safely stored inside the locked trust.”
I re-read the complex legal clause once more, focusing on the specific wording.
“If the designated heir is legally married, the spouse must also sign an acknowledgment of responsibility,” I read aloud.
I looked up sharply from the page.
“Why would my grandfather explicitly include a requirement for the spouse?” I asked, confused.
“Because your grandfather strongly believed that major family decisions should never be made by a single individual acting alone,” she explained softly.
“That sounds entirely impractical,” I remarked.
“He was an old-fashioned man who valued checks and balances,” she noted.
“He was being exceptionally careful,” I corrected gently.
“Yes, he was,” she agreed quiet.
Those words hung heavy in the air between us.
I suddenly remembered my grandfather’s large, weathered hands during his final years.
I remembered him smiling at Sylvia during a family dinner and calling her the only person in the room who actually reads the fine print.
I had laughed at his comment back then, but he had remained completely serious.
“What exactly does acknowledging responsibility entail legally?” I asked, seeking clarity.
“It means your spouse’s explicit signature was required before any major corporate restructuring could occur,” Sylvia explained.
“And if I happened to be divorced at the time of the transition?” I pressed.
“Then your father’s legal team could successfully argue that the spousal clause was completely null and void,” she revealed.
The horrific truth finally became crystal clear in my mind.
The divorce had not simply been about ending a failing marriage between two people.
It had been a deliberate legal maneuver designed to strip Sylvia of her ability to block the asset transfer.
However, one major question still lingered in my mind.
Why would any of that matter if I had never expressed a desire to sell the charitable division in the first place?
“Your father was planning to present evidence to the board claiming you were emotionally unstable and financially compromised due to the divorce,” Sylvia explained softly. “He intended to use our separation as proof that you were legally unfit to manage the trust responsibilities.”
I looked down at her with a mix of shock and admiration.
“And you were actively trying to stop him from doing that to me?” I asked softly.
“I did everything in my power to stop him,” she affirmed quietly.
“And that is why he framed you for corporate espionage,” I deduced, the pieces finally falling into place.
“He needed to completely discredit my credibility before I could bring the verified audit records to the board,” she explained.
“Why didn’t you just present those records to the board of directors immediately?” I asked.
“Because every time I managed to gather concrete evidence, someone within the executive office altered or moved the files,” she revealed.
“Someone working directly inside the corporate headquarters,” I noted.
“Yes, an insider,” she confirmed.
“Was it Marcus Vance?” I asked directly.
“I cannot say for certain,” she replied honestly.
The deep sincerity in her tone made it impossible to doubt her integrity any longer.
“What ultimately happened to the original paper documents?” I asked.
“I located them hidden inside an old basement archive room beneath the Laurel Street building,” she revealed.
“Why didn’t you secure them and take them with you?” I pressed.
“I was unable to do so because your father’s private security team showed up at the location,” she explained.
“Security guards?” I asked, frowning.
“Not armed guards, Alexander, but internal corporate compliance officers who controlled security access codes and building surveillance,” she clarified.
She saw the deep concern visible on my face and quickly added, “No one physically harmed me, but they made it abundantly clear that I was no longer permitted on the property.”
“Then how did those original files end up stored inside the trust?” I asked, confused.
“I managed to photograph and copy everything I could before they escorted me out, and I immediately dispatched the physical originals to a trusted attorney,” she explained.
“Which attorney did you send them to?” I asked.
“Evelyn Shaw,” Sylvia named her directly.
I recognized the name instantly.
Evelyn Shaw had been my grandfather’s personal legal counsel for over thirty years before retiring shortly after my father assumed control of the corporation.
“Is Evelyn Shaw still practicing law?” I asked in surprise.
“She is retired, but she still maintains her legal license,” Sylvia confirmed.
“Where is she located right now?” I pressed.
“She is staying near the Laurel Street property,” Sylvia revealed.
I looked down at the brass key resting in my hand.
“Does Evelyn Shaw currently hold the keys to the trust?” I asked.
“No, the trust lock itself is located on the property,” Sylvia clarified.
“Then what specific item does Evelyn hold in her possession?” I asked, wanting to know.
Sylvia’s face turned deeply sad as she looked at me.
“She holds a personal letter that your grandfather wrote directly to you shortly before he passed away,” she revealed softly.
I clutched the folded charter document tightly in my hand.
“Why didn’t you hand that letter to me months ago?” I asked, feeling a ache in my heart.
“I attempted to give it to you multiple times,” she replied gently.
Those words echoed in my head like a ghost from our past.
“When did you try to give it to me?” I demanded to know.
“On the very day we signed our final divorce decree at the county courthouse,” she revealed.
I looked at her, searching my memory.
“You were standing near the marble pillars in the main lobby holding a blue envelope,” I recalled slowly.
The forgotten memory suddenly resurfaced with intense clarity.
Sylvia had been standing alone by the entrance, clutching a thick blue envelope against her chest.
I had seen her standing there, but I had deliberately looked away and accelerated my pace to avoid speaking to her.
She had called out my name softly as I passed by.
I had kept walking toward the exit without turning back.
“I thought it was simply another formal legal notice from your attorney,” I admitted, feeling a profound sense of shame.
“It was the final personal letter your grandfather wrote before he died in the hospital,” she explained softly.
“Why didn’t you just mail it to my home address afterwards?” I asked.
“I did send it through certified mail,” she answered.
I searched my mind, but I knew the truth before she even spoke it.
All incoming mail arriving at the Montgomery executive suite was processed directly through my father’s administrative team.
During our messy divorce, my personal correspondence had been systematically screened by my father’s legal staff.
I had never received that blue envelope.
Sylvia looked down at her folded hands.
“Your father’s office intercepted the letter before it ever reached your desk,” she stated quietly.
A sudden knock resonated against the wooden door of the room.
Nurse Florence stepped inside, holding a plastic medical clipboard against her apron.
“The attending physician will be in shortly to conduct a routine check on you, Sylvia,” Florence announced gently.
She noticed the intense expressions on our faces and paused.
“Has something happened?” Florence asked, sensing the tension.
“Has anyone unusual arrived on the floor recently?” I asked Nurse Florence directly.
“Your mother just stepped out of the elevator downstairs,” Florence revealed calmly.
My entire body went rigid with immediate tension.
“She is already here at the hospital?” I asked, stunned.
“She is standing in the main lobby right now, claiming she is here to visit Sylvia,” Florence added.
“Do not allow her up to this floor under any circumstances,” I instructed firmly.
Nurse Florence shifted her gaze over to Sylvia.
Sylvia offered a barely perceptible nod of assent.
Florence turned back to face me with a serious expression.
“She did not come alone, Alexander. She brought two corporate attorneys with her.”
Of course she did.
My mother, Eleanor Montgomery, never took a single step in public without a carefully calculated strategy.
I immediately turned toward the door to head downstairs.
“Alexander, wait,” Sylvia called out from her bed.
I stopped in my tracks and looked back at her.
She looked genuinely frightened now, not for her own physical safety, but for what my powerful family might attempt to do next.
“Please do not engage in a wild confrontation with her down in the lobby,” Sylvia urged softly.
“I am not going down there to pick a fight,” I assured her.
“You have a long history of trying to resolve complex problems by charging directly into them,” she pointed out gently.
“That sounds remarkably familiar,” I noted with a faint trace of irony.
“It certainly should,” she agreed quietly.
A brief, fragile smile passed between us, carrying a hint of the deep connection we had shared before the lawyers destroyed everything.
Then Sylvia’s face turned completely serious once more.
“If your mother asks about taking the newborn boys, do not allow her to move them off this floor,” she warned sternly.
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
“She has zero legal right to move my children,” I stated firmly.
“She will attempt to claim that she possesses legal authority to act,” Sylvia warned.
“She possesses no such authority,” I insisted.
“Not yet,” Sylvia added ominously.
That specific phrase caused me to freeze completely.
“What do you mean by ‘not yet’?” I demanded to know.
Sylvia looked toward the bassinets where our sons slept quietly.
“Your father filed an emergency court petition late this afternoon,” she disclosed softly.
The remaining warmth vanished from the hospital room completely.
“An emergency petition for what purpose?” I asked, my blood running cold.
“An emergency petition seeking temporary legal guardianship of the twins,” she revealed.
I stared at her in absolute horror and disbelief.
“On what possible legal grounds could he claim guardianship?” I demanded.
“On the grounds that I deliberately concealed the pregnancy, that I am mentally unstable, and that you were completely unaware of the children’s existence because I hid them from you,” she explained plainly.
“That is a complete fabrication of the facts,” I spat bitterly.
“A legal petition only needs to sound plausible enough for an emergency judge to sign an interim order,” she reminded me quietly.
“Why on earth would he file a guardianship petition before the babies were even born?” I asked, struggling to comprehend the logic.
“Because he knew precisely when the labor was being induced,” she revealed softly.
The full weight of the situation finally settled into my mind.
My mother’s sudden phone call to the desk. Her knowledge of the twins. The hospital nurse’s urgent warning.
My family had been tracking Sylvia’s medical care and waiting for the exact moment to strike.
“Who leaked your medical information to my parents?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet.
Sylvia’s expression tightened with uncertainty.
“I honestly do not know,” she admitted softly.
My mind instantly traced back through the corporate structure. Marcus Vance. My father’s executive assistant. The months of enforced silence.
Then another dark possibility entered my mind.
“Did someone working here at the hospital notify them?” I asked, looking at Florence.
“Only the essential medical staff who handled emergency intake were aware she was here,” Florence answered firmly.
“How did you get admitted without using your real name in the system?” I asked Sylvia.
“Nurse Florence arranged my admission under a private protocol,” Sylvia explained gently.
I looked directly at Nurse Florence.
Florence shook her head slowly.
“Sylvia arrived through the emergency room doors late last night with no family contacts listed on her chart,” Florence clarified.
“She possessed my personal private cell phone number,” I noted.
“She had it written on a small slip of paper inside her wallet,” Florence explained. “Along with an old residential address.”
“What residential address?” I asked, looking between them.
Nurse Florence looked over at Sylvia, leaving her to answer.
Sylvia took a soft breath before speaking.
“Your grandfather’s old estate address on Laurel Street,” she revealed.
I stood completely still, staring at her in shock.
The grand old estate on Laurel Street had remained empty and shuttered ever since my grandfather passed away.
My father had attempted to sell the property multiple times, but complex legal disputes regarding the estate had delayed the listing.
I had not set foot on those grounds in years.
“What about that old estate?” I asked, confused.
“I have been secretly residing in the caretaker’s cottage on the property for the past six months,” she admitted softly.
“Why on earth would you stay there?” I asked, stunned.
“Because it was the one place where no one in your family would ever think to look for me,” she explained simply.
“Is that where you have been keeping the original corporate records all this time?” I pressed.
“Some of the primary documents are stored there,” she confirmed.
I pressed my hand against my coat pocket, feeling the brass key.
“What does this key actually open then?” I asked again.
“It does not open the main house trust,” Sylvia corrected gently. “The real trust room is hidden beneath the caretaker’s property.”
I stared at her in utter bewilderment.
“You explicitly told me earlier that the records were located on Laurel Street,” I reminded her.
“The original audit records are hidden near the main building, but the primary charter trust is constructed directly beneath the old grounds,” she clarified smoothly.
“Then why did Nurse Florence claim the key opened a locked trust?” I asked, looking at the nurse.
“Because I am a nurse, not a corporate attorney, and I was simply delivering a message,” Florence replied with a weary shrug.
Florence looked at me with complete sincerity.
“Sylvia instructed me to ensure you received that key before your family arrived at the hospital, and I followed her instructions,” Florence stated plainly.
I turned my focus back to Sylvia.
“What exactly is built beneath that old property?” I asked directly.
“A concealed room that your grandfather constructed decades ago,” she answered softly.
My mind suddenly pulled up childhood memories of the estate’s vast stone cellar.
I remembered thick stone walls, dusty shelves, and the lingering scent of old cedar wood.
As a young boy playing in the basement, I had been strictly forbidden from approaching a heavy wooden partition tucked away in the far corner.
My grandfather had always referred to that forbidden space as ‘the quiet room’.
I had always naively assumed it was merely an old storage area for wine or forgotten furniture.
“Did my grandfather realize what my father was planning to do with the company?” I asked softly.
“He strongly suspected your father’s intentions,” she confirmed gently.
“Why didn’t he take official action to stop him while he was still alive?” I demanded.
“He was suffering from a terminal illness, Alexander,” she reminded me gently. “Your grandfather trusted your father to maintain the family legacy. By the time he realized your father had far different ambitions, he simply lacked the physical strength to wage a public legal war.”
“And so he passed that immense burden directly onto my shoulders?” I asked, feeling a surge of bitterness.
“He left the responsibility to whoever in the family was willing to seek out the truth,” she corrected softly.
Before I could say another word, the room door swung open wide.
My mother, Eleanor Montgomery, stepped into the recovery room with absolute poise.
She looked impeccably refined, as she always did in public settings, wearing a tailored navy coat and her silver hair styled in a flawless twist.
Standing directly behind her in the doorway were two senior corporate attorneys carrying sleek leather legal briefs.
My mother’s sharp eyes immediately swept across the room.
She looked first at the two bassinets in the corner.
Then her eyes shifted to Sylvia resting in the bed.
Finally, her gaze locked squarely onto me.
“Alexander,” my mother spoke, her voice smooth and measured. “You really should have informed us before running off to the hospital.”
An old, familiar impulse rose up inside me—the deeply ingrained desire to play the dutiful son, maintain absolute composure, and avoid a scene at all costs.
The reflexive impulse flared up for a second, and then completely died.
“No, mother, I should not have called you,” I responded coldly.
A faint flicker of surprise crossed her features.
“Your father is deeply concerned about this situation,” she claimed smoothly.
“Is he concerned about Sylvia’s health?” I asked sarcastically.
“He is concerned about the welfare of the children,” she corrected smoothly.
“The children are completely stable,” I informed her.
“We are already aware of their medical status,” she replied without thinking.
That casual admission sent a chill down my spine.
“How exactly were you already aware of their medical status?” I pressed tightly.
One of the corporate attorneys took a small step forward into the room.
“Mr. Montgomery, we are here on behalf of the family estate to discuss—”
“I was not addressing you,” I cut him off sharply, glaring at the attorney.
My mother held up a manicured hand, silently ordering her lawyer to step back.
“Alexander, a public hospital room is hardly the appropriate setting for an emotional argument,” she noted calmly.
“I agree with you completely,” I answered steadily.
“Then allow our legal team to escort you somewhere private where we can speak rationally,” she offered smoothly.
“I am remaining right here in this room,” I stated firmly.
Her eyes shifted away from me and rested coldly on Sylvia.
“Sylvia, I am truly sorry for the physical ordeal you have experienced tonight,” my mother said with practiced sympathy.
Sylvia remained completely silent, staring back at her without blinking.
My mother continued seamlessly, “However, these newborn children are legitimate Montgomery heirs. Their long-term future and legal protection must be handled properly by the family.”
“They are also Sylvia’s children,” I reminded my mother sternly.
“And they are yours as well,” my mother added pointedly.
“This appears to be the very first time tonight that you have shown any interest in acknowledging my fatherhood,” I noted bitterly.
A brief shadow of irritation passed over her calculated expression.
“I am simply trying to protect this family from public scandal,” she insisted calmly.
“Protecting us from what scandal exactly?” I demanded to know.
“From an extremely complicated situation that none of us could have anticipated,” she explained smoothly.
Sylvia finally spoke up from her hospital bed, her voice clear and steady.
“You anticipated this exact moment for months, Eleanor,” Sylvia stated directly.
My mother turned her cold gaze toward Sylvia.
“You were never supposed to carry this high-risk pregnancy to term in secret,” my mother remarked smoothly.
The statement was uttered with utter detachment, making the words far more terrifying.
The entire room fell into an uncomfortable, heavy silence.
I turned my head and looked at Sylvia in horror, then looked back at my mother.
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.
Sylvia closed her eyes, refusing to repeat the painful words.
My mother’s sharp expression shifted slightly, a brief hint of calculated regret appearing before her composure returned.
“I simply meant that her medical team classified the pregnancy as high-risk from the beginning,” my mother claimed smoothly.
“No,” I said, shaking my head firmly. “That is not what you meant at all.”
“Alexander, please—”
“What did you mean by that statement?” I demanded, stepping right up to her.
The senior attorney beside her cleared his throat nervously.
“Mrs. Montgomery, perhaps it would be wise if we stepped outside to—”
“I asked my mother a direct question,” I interrupted sharply, keeping my eyes locked on her.
My mother met my gaze without flinch.
“Sylvia was explicitly advised by medical professionals to consider placing the infants into specialized private care if they arrived prematurely,” my mother claimed smoothly.
“Advised by which medical professionals?” I pressed tightly.
“By private specialists arranged by our family,” she answered smoothly.
“And why did you feel the need to arrange private specialists without my knowledge?” I asked.
“To guarantee that the infants received the absolute best medical care money could buy,” she claimed smoothly.
“Or to ensure that your legal team maintained complete control over where those babies were taken?” I countered sharply.
Her absolute silence was more damning than any verbal admission could ever be.
I deliberately positioned my body directly between my mother and the two bassinets in the corner.
I did not touch anyone or make a physical threat, but I firmly occupied the physical space she clearly believed belonged to her legal team.
My mother’s eyes narrowed into cold slits.
“You are acting entirely out of emotional volatility right now, Alexander,” she observed judgmentally.
“I am acting like a father who protects his sons,” I corrected her firmly.
“You have known about the existence of these children for less than one hour,” she pointed out coldly.
“That is still sixty minutes longer than you knew them when you directed your lawyers to file a guardianship petition,” I shot back.
The two attorneys exchanged a quick, uncomfortable glance behind her back.
My mother lowered her voice, attempting to regain control of the dialogue.
“You clearly do not grasp the severe legal reality of this situation,” she said strictly.
“Then explain this so-called legal reality to me right now,” I challenged.
“You and Sylvia are legally divorced,” my mother laid out coldly. “She deliberately hid her pregnancy from you. You were completely ignorant of the birth until tonight. She possesses no permanent residence, no active employment, and no extended family support structure in this state.”
“She possesses me,” I stated clearly, the words leaving my mouth before I could overthink them.
My mother analyzed me with a cool, critical eye.
“Does she truly possess your support, Alexander?” my mother asked softly, striking at my deepest insecurity.
The sharp question landed heavily because I did not have a clean, perfect answer prepared.
Sylvia watched me quietly from her bed, not demanding rescue or begging for grand promises.
Her dignified quietness made the moment vastly more impactful.
She had spent seven grueling months protecting our unborn children completely on her own.
I could not magically undo my past failures simply by making a dramatic stand in a hospital room.
My mother took advantage of my hesitation and pressed forward.
“The infants can easily be placed under temporary family care until the court establishes permanent arrangements,” my mother suggested smoothly.
“’Temporary family care’ means putting them under your direct control,” I pointed out coldly.
“It means placing them in absolute safety,” she corrected firmly.
“It means giving you complete legal control,” I countered.
Her face flushed with suppressed anger, but she maintained her quiet, controlled delivery.
“We have a solemn duty to preserve the integrity of the Montgomery family legacy,” she asserted.
Sylvia’s voice cut through the air from the bed.
“They do not need a corporate legacy preserved, Eleanor,” Sylvia stated powerfully. “They need honest parents who tell them the absolute truth.”
My mother turned and looked at Sylvia with an unreadable expression.
“You have absolutely no concept of what the truth will ultimately cost those children,” my mother warned quietly.
Sylvia met her icy stare without flinching for a second.
“And neither do you,” Sylvia answered firmly.
For a long, tense moment, the two women stared at each other across the room.
One had been born into vast corporate privilege and had spent her whole life maintaining appearances.
The other had entered the family believing that truth and integrity could reform a broken system.
I had loved both of these women in entirely different ways throughout my life.
I had blindly believed the former without demanding proof, and I had deeply doubted the latter without giving her a fair trial.
That realization was devastating in its stark simplicity.
I turned my back on my mother and faced the two corporate attorneys directly.
“Get out of this room right now,” I ordered coldly.
The senior attorney looked to my mother for direction.
She gave a brief, subtle nod of her head.
“We will wait down in the main lobby,” the attorney stated quietly.
Before turning to leave, my mother looked at me one last time.
“Your father has scheduled the final transition meeting for eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” she informed me.
“I am well aware of the meeting,” I replied.
“You were not issued an official invitation to attend,” she pointed out coldly.
“Then it is fortunate that I am no longer waiting for your permission to show up,” I answered steadily.
She searched my face, perhaps looking for the obedient son she had controlled for decades.
“Alexander, if you dare walk into that boardroom tomorrow, you stand to lose everything you own,” she warned solemnly.
I glanced over at the two small bassinets resting beneath the warm yellow lights.
“Everything that actually mattered was already being stolen from me while I was sleeping,” I answered quietly.
Without uttering another word, my mother turned around and walked out into the corridor.
The two attorneys followed closely behind her.
Nurse Florence quietly closed the heavy wooden door behind them, sealing the room.
For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmical ticking of the medical monitors.
Sylvia looked over at me from her bed.
“You really did not have to do that,” she said softly.
“Yes, I absolutely had to do that,” I answered firmly.
“You have no idea what kind of trap you are walking into tomorrow,” she warned.
“No, I don’t,” I admitted freely. “But I finally know who I am standing alongside.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them away quickly.
“Alexander…” she began quietly.
“I am not standing here asking you to forgive me for my past mistakes tonight,” I interrupted gently.
“I honestly do not know if I can ever fully forgive you,” she admitted truthfully.
“I completely understand that,” I replied softly.
“And I am certainly not asking you to blindly trust me again,” she added.
“I know you aren’t,” I acknowledged.
“Then what exactly are you asking from me right now?” she asked, looking searching into my eyes.
I walked over to the bassinets and looked down at my sleeping sons.
“I am asking you to tell me exactly what steps I need to take next,” I answered honestly.
Sylvia’s breath hitched slightly as the weight of my question settled over her.
“You need to go directly to the Laurel Street estate,” she instructed softly.
“Tonight?” I asked, wanting to clarify.
“Yes, right now, before your father’s morning meeting takes place,” she urged.
“What specific item am I looking for once I get there?” I asked.
“The hidden room that your grandfather always referred to as ‘the quiet room’,” she revealed.
“And the personal letter from my grandfather?” I pressed.
“Look for it there, if it hasn’t already been confiscated,” she answered carefully.
