Aria's POV
The envelope was still on her nightstand.
Cream-colored. Unmarked. Heavy with silence.
She hadn't touched it since she came home.
Damien had handed it to her in the garden with all the reverence of a man offering confession. Inside was the original deed transfer between her father and Elias Thornewell. The paper was brittle at the corners, but the signatures were sharp—her father's looping cursive beside Elias' practiced, powerful scrawl. It looked like a contract made under duress, but without fingerprints.
She didn't open it again.
Not yet.
Instead, she stood at her kitchen sink, staring into a mug of untouched tea. It had gone cold hours ago. The steam had long since vanished, but she kept holding it—like warmth could still return to something that had already been lost.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
ELISE: Callum Thornewell just showed up. Says it's urgent. He's in the lobby.
Aria froze.
She hadn't seen him in years.
Not properly. Not since Juliette's engagement dinner when he sat at the far end of the table, smirking through a champagne glass while whispering things Aria had been too tired to parse. He had the same smile as Damien—except his was polished sharper, a weapon he enjoyed using.
Aria set the mug down.
And went to war in heels.
---
Valehart Events — Conference Room
He was already seated when she arrived. One leg crossed casually over the other, arms resting along the back of the velvet chair like he'd had it custom-fitted for arrogance. His suit was forest green, the tie undone just enough to look deliberate. His smile curled the moment she walked in.
"Aria Valehart," he drawled. "Still lighting matches in ballrooms?"
She didn't sit.
"Still showing up uninvited to places that deserve better than you?"
Callum grinned wider. "God, I missed you."
"Say what you need to say."
He held up both hands, all faux innocence. "No need to be hostile. I'm here in peace."
She raised a brow.
He leaned forward, tapping the edge of the glass table. "I heard you've been digging into old Thornewell records. Dangerous hobby."
"Only if you have something to hide."
"Everyone has something to hide, Aria." He tilted his head. "Even you."
Her throat tightened—but she didn't flinch.
Callum's eyes glittered. "I wonder what your father would think, seeing you in bed with the same bloodline that paid to silence him."
She blinked. Just once.
"That's not your business."
"Isn't it?" His tone dipped. "Because when it comes to legacies, blood has a way of bleeding into everything. No matter how many years you try to scrub it clean."
He slid something across the table. A photograph. Black and white. Blurred at the edges, but unmistakable.
Juliette. Pregnant.
Aria's pulse skipped.
Her sister stood in profile, belly gently rounded beneath a linen dress, face turned to the side. The background was indiscernible—an unfamiliar garden, maybe. But her posture… it was unmistakable. Protective. Alone.
Callum's voice went quiet. "That was taken three months after the wedding that never was."
Aria couldn't move.
"She was seen at a clinic in Boston under an alias," Callum continued. "A very expensive clinic. The kind only people like my father used when they wanted problems to disappear."
Aria snapped her gaze to him. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," he said smoothly, "that maybe you're looking at the wrong Thornewell."
---
Aria's Apartment — That Night
She slammed the door harder than necessary.
The envelope with the deed still waited on the nightstand.
The photograph Callum gave her now sat beside it. Juliette, in soft light. Juliette, with a secret.
She dropped her bag and sank into the armchair by the window, legs curled beneath her, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.
What did it mean?
Why hadn't Juliette said anything?
Why had Damien never mentioned it?
She hated that a part of her even had to ask that.
Her phone vibrated against the table.
Damien again.
> DAMIEN: Just checking in. Hope you're okay.
She stared at the message.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, trembling.
She typed:
> ARIA: Did you know Juliette was pregnant?
She didn't wait. She sent it.
The reply came fast.
> DAMIEN: What?
> ARIA: Don't lie.
> DAMIEN: Aria, I swear to you. No. I didn't know.
> DAMIEN: Where is this coming from?
> ARIA: Callum. He brought proof. A photo.
> DAMIEN: He's trying to manipulate you. He always does.
> ARIA: That doesn't make it false.
This time, there was a pause.
Longer than she liked.
> DAMIEN: Let me come over.
> ARIA: No.
She turned off her phone and let it fall to the rug. The ache between her ribs returned, heavier this time. Not betrayal. Not anger.
Something worse.
Doubt.
---
Morning — Lower East Side Café
She hadn't meant to call Holden, but when the sun rose and she still hadn't slept, she found herself needing to breathe somewhere quieter. Somewhere far from marble estates and bloodlines.
The historian met her at a café with peeling paint and bitter coffee. He wore the same worn coat and carried a leather satchel full of secrets.
"There's something else," he said gently, sliding a folded page toward her. "We found this after you left."
It was a torn journal entry. Her father's handwriting.
> Elias asked too much. Juliette will never understand what I gave up for her. But it's Aria I worry about. She's always been the one who sees too much. Feels too much. I hope she never learns what her sister was willing to do to stay safe.
Aria traced the words with one trembling finger.
Safe.
That wasn't love. That was fear.
She looked up at Holden. "Did you know Juliette was pregnant?"
He hesitated.
"I suspected," he said softly. "But I wasn't sure. She visited once, after the wedding. Looked tired. Distant. Said she needed records on sealed estates. She didn't stay long."
Aria nodded.
She didn't cry.
She felt like she'd done all her grieving backwards.
---
Afternoon — Thornewell Estate
She didn't call ahead.
She needed to see Damien.
This time, not to demand answers—but to measure the truth in his silence.
He met her at the gate, hair wind-tossed, dark circles beneath his eyes.
"You asked if I still love you," she said quietly.
He stilled.
She reached into her coat and held out the photograph. Juliette. Garden. Rounded stomach.
"I need you to look at this and tell me who you were five years ago. Not the man I kissed last week. Not the one who handed me a pendant like it might fix everything."
Damien stared at the photo. His throat bobbed. He blinked once, then again.
"I didn't know," he said. "I swear on whatever you still believe in—I didn't know."
She nodded.
But she didn't speak.
He looked up, voice breaking. "I don't know what happened to her after that night. She disappeared. And I let her."
"Because of me?" she asked.
"Because of everything."
They stood in silence.
Then Damien stepped forward and held out his hand.
Not to touch her.
Just to offer.
"What do you want, Aria?"
She thought about the answer for a long time.
Then finally said, "I want the truth. And I want to survive it."