My father’s primary office occupied the top floor of a sleek glass tower overlooking downtown San Antonio, but that morning it felt less like a corporate headquarters and more like an emergency command post. He did not give me a dramatic hug when I stepped into the room, though I could clearly see the quiet restraint in his face. Instead, he pulled out a leather chair for me, handed me a fresh legal pad, and looked into my eyes.
“Start from the very first word you heard on that open phone line,” he directed quietly.
I recounted every detail without holding back, detailing Hunter’s casual voice, Isabelle’s light laugh, the ten million dollar transfer, the planned divorce, the pregnancy announcement, and the late night text message that had illuminated his phone while he slept. My father listened in complete silence, writing down specific dates, times, names, and phrases with precise pressure on his paper. When I finally finished speaking, he pressed a button on his desk intercom.
“Please send Nadia into my office right away,” he instructed his secretary.
Nadia Griffin, my father’s top legal counsel, arrived fifteen minutes later wearing an immaculate charcoal suit and carrying the calm expression of someone who regularly made powerful businessmen nervous. She did not attempt to invade my personal space, but instead asked for my phone so she could preserve the call record and establish an undisputed timeline.
