As Aisha stepped out of her car, the weight of the situation became tangible. Her face was a mask of determination, and as she approached, the air felt charged with the electricity of impending revelation. Elijah and I exchanged a glance, both knowing that whatever came next would redefine our understanding of the past fifteen years.
Aisha didn’t waste any time. “We need to talk—now,” she said, her voice low and urgent. We moved to the kitchen, the only place in the house that still felt safe. The walls seemed to close in around us as the gravity of the moment settled in.
“Franklin’s involvement goes deeper than just the affair,” Aisha began, spreading out a collection of documents and photographs on the kitchen table. The images and papers painted a picture of a man I barely recognized—a man whose life was a web of lies and deceit.
