Beneath the Lies

Grief clings to you in strange ways. Sometimes, it's loud like thunder splitting the silence with such force that you can almost feel it in your bones. Other times, it's quiet, lurking in the background like a shadow, never quite leaving. It reminds you of what could have been, what should have been, and what was never meant to be.

For me, grief came quietly. It lingered in the steady thrum of my heartbeat whenever I looked into the mirror and saw the faint trace of him in my eyes. But tonight, the thunder cracked, splitting the silence in two. Rain hammered against the windows like a warning-urgent, relentless, impossible to ignore. The city lights outside blurred, swallowed by the downpour that painted the world in streaks of silver and sorrow. I had always loved the rain, but tonight, it felt like mourning.

I stood at the edge of my father's study-the one place that still held the echoes of him. The smell of aged wood, his sandalwood cologne, and something colder, final, lingered in the air. Weeks had passed since... well, since everything happened, and yet the room remained untouched, frozen in time like a museum exhibit of the man I once knew. The air hung heavy with grief, unanswered questions hanging between every breath. Everything in that room still belonged to him except for the truth.

I pressed my palm against the smooth surface of his desk. The grain of the wood felt familiar, comforting, even. Beneath my fingers lay the last place he'd sat, the last moment when he could have still believed the world wasn't against him.

I remembered the morning I heard the news like moonlight caught in a mirror-it lingers, quiet and haunting, impossible to forget.

The announcement came in a wave that felt like it would never stop breaking: "The body of Javier Vasquez found amid corruption scandal." The media already had their version of the story, the public had made their judgment, and Reed Enterprises? They stood back, letting the storm swallow him whole. I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye-not really. Just a voicemail I never returned.

They called it suicide. They said the pressure had gotten to him. That the allegations, the disgrace, had broken him. But I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now.

My father was a brilliant man. He was meticulous, cold to many but never a criminal. He loved order, precision, and planning. He wouldn't have unraveled like that. He wouldn't have done what they said he did.

He couldn't have.

I stared at the photo on his desk, one of the two of us from years ago. We were on the balcony of our old summer house, his arm wrapped around me. A rare smile tugged at his lips, pride gleaming in his eyes. That man wouldn't have thrown his life away. He wouldn't have traded his legacy for a fortune.

That man was framed.

I turned away from my reflection in the window-grief-stricken cerulean eyes burning beneath dark brows, lips pressed into a determined line. My almost jet-black, wavy hair fell over my shoulders, longer now than it had ever been. I didn't look like the girl in that photograph anymore.

No. I looked like someone else now. Someone who had come back for answers.

So, I returned here. To the city that swallowed him whole. To the company that had once been built on legacy and innovation, but was now rotting from the inside, hiding secrets.

There's something hollow about walking into a place you've only seen from the outside. The lobby was pristine-glass and marble so polished it looked like nothing could crack beneath the surface. No hint that a man's life had ended in ruins because of what had started here.

I had come as someone else. Not out of shame, but strategy.

My father had always taught me to stay ten steps ahead. He taught me that sometimes, the only way to find the truth is to wear a lie like a second skin.

So, I smiled when they greeted me. I nodded when they spoke of the company's "unshakable values." I nodded, hiding the anger that simmered beneath my skin because every polished surface reflected a different version of the truth.

I didn't care how long it took. I didn't care how many files I had to sift through, how many lies I had to unravel, or how close I had to get to the people who'd destroyed him. I would wear a mask of civility if I had to. I would play their games.

But I wouldn't stop until I cleared his name.

The storm outside roared again, louder than before, echoing the rage swelling in my chest. My fists clenched at my sides. This wasn't just grief anymore.

This was wrath.

And then, like a flash of heat cutting through the cold, one name surged to the front of my mind.

The one man who stood at the heart of Reed Enterprises. The man they called a visionary. The one who walked these halls like nothing could touch him.

Lucien Reed.

He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to ruin him.