Aria's POV
The letter felt heavier than it should have.
Just a piece of paper. Thin, unassuming. Yellowed at the corners like it had waited too long to be read. Aria sat at the edge of the hotel bed, the velvet box with the silver magnolia pendant forgotten on the nightstand. The sun hadn't risen yet. The city was a quiet silhouette behind the frosted glass. Even time seemed to hold its breath.
The letter bore her father's signature.
And the Thornewell seal.
She hadn't slept. Her robe was still wrapped tight around her, hair loose, fingers ink-stained from hours spent combing through archived scans and personal files Callum had dumped on her like shrapnel. But it was this letter—this final, folded thing—that cracked her open.
> "To Elias Thornewell,
I agree to the terms of silence. In exchange for the endowment, the deed, and the guarantees provided for my daughters' education, I forfeit all future rights to the estate. This letter shall serve as record of my compliance.
George Valehart."
It was dated six months after her mother died. Aria would've been seven. Juliette was still learning to braid her own hair.
Aria read it again. And again. As if repetition might change it.
He sold everything. For them.
She wanted to scream. But the only sound that came was a breath that trembled too hard to be normal. She reached for her tea—cold, untouched—and wrapped both hands around the ceramic like it might hold her together.
"You should've told me," she whispered into the room. "You should've said something."
But her father was gone now. Five years, and his voice still echoed in her head like a sermon wrapped in jazz vinyl.
Her phone buzzed. Damien.
> DAMIEN: "Leaving estate for city. Let me know if you need anything. I'll wait. No pressure."
He was trying. Being gentle. Giving space. He'd probably spent the morning pacing, fists clenched in those expensive coat pockets, practicing silence like it was some noble gift.
She didn't answer right away.
Because the thing she wanted to ask—Did you know?—still sat like a thorn in her throat.
Instead, she stood. Slipped into slacks and a cashmere sweater. She didn't bother with makeup. Just tied her hair back and packed the letter, the pendant, and her silence into her tote.
---
Midtown — Valehart Events Office
Elise jumped slightly when Aria walked in.
"You're early," she said, blinking at her like Aria was a ghost. "You didn't answer last night. I was starting to think—"
"Everything's fine," Aria said quickly, too quickly.
Elise's brows creased, but she nodded. "You've got the MacMillan call at eleven. And the vendors for the Pierce wedding are still waiting on floral specs. I told them we'd need until Tuesday."
Aria paused. "Give me until Thursday."
"Aria—"
"Thursday," she repeated, gentler this time. "Please."
Elise didn't argue. Just handed her a cappuccino and stepped back.
Aria stared at her desk for a long time after that. It was absurd, really—how something could feel both foreign and safe at once. The space she'd built from scratch. Every pen, every planner, every curated scent diffused through the vents was hers. But now… now it felt like the quiet held too many echoes.
She pulled the letter from her bag. Set it beside the magnolia pendant.
Her father had sold their legacy.
Damien's family had paid for her silence before she even knew how to speak.
And still—some impossible part of her wanted to believe Damien hadn't known.
---
Later — Thornewell Foundation Archive
The building was colder than it should've been. Not in temperature, but in tone—marble walls, glass elevators, curated minimalism that tried too hard to say we're not hiding anything. The receptionist smiled with practiced warmth.
"I'm here to see Dr. Holden," Aria said.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"He's expecting me," she replied. Her voice was steady. Cold. The kind of calm she wore like couture.
The woman typed something. Nodded. "Third floor. Archives."
As Aria rode the elevator up, she traced the scar on her palm—a thin white line from a childhood fall. She remembered crying, her father scooping her up, saying, "The things that bleed leave the deepest stories."
She wondered what kind of story he thought this would leave.
The doors slid open with a hiss.
---
Dr. Holden was an older man with wiry glasses and a voice like velvet dust.
"Miss Valehart," he greeted, standing stiffly. "It's… an honor. George spoke very highly of you."
Aria blinked. "You knew my father?"
"I was a junior associate when he came through with the survey maps. Smart man. Sad man."
Sad. That hit harder than it should've.
"Why didn't he ever talk about this?"
Holden hesitated. "Some people bury things to protect others. George… he wasn't proud of what he signed. But he was proud of why he did it."
"For us."
"Yes." He adjusted his glasses. "And for your mother. The treatments weren't cheap. And the Thornewells... they weren't just paying for silence. They were paying for guilt."
Aria swallowed. Her eyes burned.
"What about Project Nightingale?"
Holden's eyes sharpened. "That's a name I haven't heard in a while."
"I saw the email," she said quietly. "The acquisition. The sealing of records."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded, slowly. "There's a room. Locked. Private. George's papers are still there. Not digitized. Not touched."
"Can I see them?"
A beat of hesitation. "I shouldn't... but I owe George that much."
---
Thirty minutes later, Aria stood alone in a room that smelled like dust and forgotten things.
There were maps. Letters. Handwritten notes.
And one, in particular, that stopped her heart cold.
> Aria—if you're reading this, I couldn't carry it anymore. And I'm sorry. I wanted to shield you, but I realize now that truth is a kind of love too. What I gave away wasn't land—it was legacy. Blood written in ink, tied to people who smile with knives. Be careful who you forgive. Especially him.
Love always,
Dad.
She sank to the floor.
That last line—"Especially him."
Did he mean Elias?
Or Damien?
Because if it was Damien…
She didn't know how to breathe.
---
Evening — Thornewell Estate Library
She found Damien in the library, alone. Reading. He looked up the second she stepped inside, his eyes going wide.
"You came back," he said softly.
"I always do," she said.
Damien stood, setting his glass aside. "You read the letter."
She nodded.
"And?"
Her jaw clenched. "Why didn't you tell me your family bought my father?"
"I didn't know," he said immediately, but his voice cracked at the edges. "Not until Callum dug it up. I swear, Aria. I didn't know."
Her chest ached. "But you knew something. You always do."
He stepped closer, hesitant. "I only found out after I chose you for the gala. I saw your name in the records. I wanted to tell you—I almost did—but then the look on your face when we kissed, when you smiled again…"
"You didn't want to ruin it."
"No," he said. "I didn't want to ruin you."
The room pulsed with something heavy and unspoken.
She pulled the letter from her coat and held it up. "My father warned me. Not just about your family. About you."
Damien's face shuttered. But he didn't flinch.
"And you still came here."
Her hand dropped. The paper fluttered to the floor.
"I didn't come to forgive you," she said. "I came to see if you'd lie again."
He stared at her, his voice raw. "And did I?"
She hesitated. Then shook her head. "Not this time."
A long, tense silence.
"Do you still love me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She blinked. "I don't know what love looks like anymore."
He stepped closer. "Then let me help you remember."