Chapter 7 - The Cartographer’s Secret InkAs Mrs. Cruz’s terrified, ear-splitting shrieks faded down the corridor, swallowed entirely by the howling storm, Christian dropped to one knee before his paralyzed father.
He took his father’s cold, trembling hand in his own, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as tears welled in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Christian choked out, his voice thick with profound anguish. “I didn't know. I trusted the wrong people.”
Then, with agonizing slowness, Christian Senior’s left hand rose. His index finger pointed directly toward a small wooden crate resting in the dark corner of the vault.
Christian stood up, walked over to the crate, and picked up a battered, leather-bound notebook.
He flipped open the cover. Inside, written in delicate, precise cursive, were the notes, sketches, and daily logs of a young woman named Sofia Morales.
Page after page detailed how she had sneaked down here every single night for ninety days. She had bought cooling gel pads with her own meager tips, washed his skin with rosewater, fed him fresh fruit, and talked to him about her unborn son, Mateo, when the entire world had left him to rot in the dark.
Christian closed the leather notebook, his jaw setting like an iron anvil.
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He turned to Barrett, his green eyes flashing with an unyielding, absolute command.
“Find her,” Christian commanded, his baritone echoing off the concrete walls. “Bring Sofia Morales to the main study immediately.”
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