She looked years older than she should have. Her face was thin, her eyes dull with exhaustion, faint discolorations marking her arms. When she saw me, she froze—caught between fear and disbelief.
“Lily?” I said softly.
She stared, blinking, before her voice finally came out.
“Dad…? You’re really here?”
Before I could reach her, Marianne stepped in from the lounge, dressed in designer homewear, wine glass in hand. Her irritation vanished instantly, replaced with a strained smile.
“Oh! You’re back sooner than expected,” she said, blocking Lily from my view. “She’s still working, but we can talk later—”
“Working?” I repeated, my gaze fixed on my daughter. “In her own house?”
Marianne’s smile faltered. “You don’t understand how things have been—”
I didn’t let her finish.
I pulled out my phone, called my attorney, and said the four words that stopped the air in the room:
“Begin a complete investigation.”
Marianne’s color drained. Lily flinched, clearly confused. And that single call set off a chain of events none of us could stop.