ISABELLE'S POV

I recognized the writing, it was my father's own. My fingers trembling as they traced the edges of the diary. The leather-bound book felt heavier in my hands than it had a moment ago.

“Why am I just seeing this, I've never thought my father would be the type to write a diary”, I said, smiling softly.

“Why did he hide this from me?”, I said, my voice barely audible.

I flipped back to the first page, a small smile at the edge of my lips when I read it.

The entry was dated over a decade ago, from my 12th birthday.

**Isabelle was relentless today. She wanted...