Stumbling through the opulent foyer, Anya barely registered the familiar artwork. Her mind replayed Valerius's damning words, the flashing cameras, the stunned gasps. Alistair's unexpected defense felt like a distant, distorted echo against the roar of her own despair. All she wanted was to disappear. To cease to exist. Pushing the heavy front door open, a cold dread settled deep in her bones. The house was too quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of a late night, but an ominous, heavy silence that pressed in on her. Her parents' car was in the driveway, which meant they were home. They knew. Inside, the living room lights blazed. Father stood by the fireplace, his back to her, rigid as stone. Mother sat on the sofa, clutching a crumpled tissue, her face puffy and stained with tears. She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. "Anya," her mother whispered, the sound barely audible. It was a broken plea, not a greeting. Father turned slowly, his face etched with a mix of betrayal and profound disappointment. His jaw was clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple. "Is it true?" His voice was low, dangerous, devoid of its usual warmth. Numbness enveloped Anya. She couldn't speak. Her throat felt tight, constricted. She merely nodded, a barely perceptible dip of her chin. The admission hung in the air, thick and suffocating. "The Ghost?" Father continued, stepping closer. "Our Anya? The girl who always hated lies, who meticulously researched every detail for her art?" His hand gripped the mantelpiece, knuckles white. Looking at their anguished faces, Anya's carefully constructed world imploded. All the years of quiet work, the meticulous restorations, the attempts at building a new, honest life – it was all obliterated in one cruel instant. She remembered the thrill of the forgeries, the desperate need for money that had driven her. The intellectual challenge, the fleeting sense of power. It felt like a lifetime ago, a different person. But the past had a cruel way of catching up. "We saw the news," Mother sobbed, finally finding her voice. "Every channel. Your face. Your… your former identity." She gestured vaguely at the television, which was now dark. "How could you hide this from us?" Father’s voice escalated, a sharp edge cutting through the quiet. "For years, Anya! We thought we knew you. We believed in you!" Every word was a fresh stab. Anya flinched, instinctively stepping back. She wanted to explain, to tell them about the poverty, the desperation, the way she'd been drawn in, then trapped. But no excuse felt adequate. No explanation could erase the pain in their eyes. "I changed, Father," she managed, her voice hoarse. "I truly did. I tried to make amends. Everything I've done since... it's been honest." His eyes narrowed. "Honest? What about the foundation? What about all the donors you brought in? Did you tell them about your past? Did you tell them their money was going to be handled by a convicted forger?" "I wasn't convicted!" Anya protested, a sliver of indignation sparking within her. "I was never caught. I served my time. I paid my dues." "Paid your dues?" Mother's voice rose, shrill with disbelief. "By lying to us? By building a life on a secret that could destroy everything we hold dear? Our reputation, Anya! The King family's name!" Anya's head snapped up. "The King family? This has nothing to do with them. This is about me!" "It has everything to do with them!" Father countered, his face flushed with anger. "Your association with them, the trust they placed in you. Do you think they'll stand by you now? Do you think *we* can stand by you?" A tremor ran through Anya. The thought of losing her parents' support, their love, was a far deeper wound than any public shame. She had always prided herself on being independent, but their approval had been her quiet anchor. "Please," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Let me explain. Let me tell you everything." Mother stood, slowly, her eyes fixed on Anya. A single tear traced a path down her cheek. Her lips trembled as she struggled to form words. "Don't you understand?" Her mother’s voice was a ragged whisper, the sound of a heart breaking in real-time. "It's not just the secret. It's the deception. The years of it." She took a shaky step closer, her hand reaching out, then falling. "How could you, Anya? Everything we've built... it's all a lie!"

Chapter 45: The Family's Plea