The sound of a Rolls-Royce engine cut through the estate's quiet at noon. Ella was in the library, pretending to read a leather-bound novel about dukes and debutantes, but her eyes kept drifting to the window. Lady Black—Sebastian's sister, Cordelia—was arriving early.
Thorn appeared in the doorway, his expression tight. "Lady Black is in the drawing room, Miss White. Mr. Black requests your presence."
Ella closed the book, her hands clammy. She'd spent the morning replaying Sebastian's words in the West Wing: "I'm trying to keep you alive." Was he being honest? Or was it another lie to keep her compliant?
The drawing room door was ajar, and she heard Cordelia's voice before she saw her—sharp, laughter like shards of glass.
"—and Father expects you to fix this mess with Arthur, Seb. The board's already muttering about 'family instability.'"
"Arthur's irrelevant." Sebastian's tone was cool, dismissive. "He'll fall in line."
"Or you'll bury him like you buried Clara's secrets?" Cordelia scoffed. "Honestly, brother, your devotion to that dead aunt is tedious. What's next? Digging up her grave to host tea parties?"
Ella pushed the door open.
Cordelia Black was everything Sebastian wasn't: vivid, with fire in her green eyes and a mouth that looked made for smirking. She wore a red silk dress that hugged her curves, a diamond necklace at her throat—no subtlety, no restraint. Her gaze landed on Ella, and the smirk sharpened.
"Ah. The charity case. Father said you'd taken in a stray, but I didn't think you'd let it wear silk." She flicked a finger at Ella's dress—Sebastian's choice, a soft blue that clashed with the room's dark velvet.
Ella's spine stiffened. "I'm not a stray, Lady Black."
Cordelia laughed. "No? Then what are you? A pet? He's always had a thing for broken things—clocks, horses, now… girls." She stepped closer, her perfume—heavy, floral—drowning out the room's cedar scent. "Tell me, do you come with a price tag? Or is he keeping you for free?"
"Cordelia." Sebastian's voice was low, a warning. He stood, placing himself between them—shoulders squared, a physical barrier. "Enough."
"Oh, don't get protective." Cordelia's gaze slid to the silver nightingale at Ella's throat, and her smile faded. "That pendant. Where did you get it?"
Ella's fingers closed around the chain. "A gift from my grandmother."
"Eleanor White's granddaughter." Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "How convenient. The nurse's bloodline, wearing Clara's trinket. Did Seb pay you to play dress-up? Or is this his idea of a joke?"
"Watch your mouth." Sebastian's hand curled into a fist at his side. Ella had never seen him this tense—even with Arthur's men, he'd been calm, controlled. Now, his jaw was tight, his gaze burning into Cordelia. "She's under my protection."
"Protection." Cordelia snorted. "Please. You're obsessed. Ever since you found her, you've been acting like a dog with a bone. What is it about her? The way she looks at you like you're a storm? Or is it the pendant—reminding you of the sister you couldn't save?"
Something in Sebastian snapped. He grabbed Cordelia's arm, his grip fierce. "I said. Enough."
Cordelia yelped, yanking free. "Don't touch me! You can't hide her forever, Seb. Arthur knows she has it. He's been asking about the vault—says Clara's 'little key' is the only way in." She turned to Ella, her voice venomous. "Enjoy your time here, dear. It won't last. The Blacks don't keep secrets—we burn them. And you, with your grandmother's lies and that cursed pendant? You're already ashes."
She stormed out, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the chandelier.
The room fell silent. Sebastian's back was to her, his shoulders heaving. When he turned, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide—unraveled, for once.
"Get out," he said, but it lacked bite.
Ella didn't move. "Why does she hate you? Cordelia—she's your sister."
"Half-sister." He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it. "Mother died giving birth to her. Father blamed me. Said I'd stolen her attention. Cordelia grew up thinking I was the enemy. It's easier that way."
Easier than what? Loving him? Ella didn't ask. Instead, she said, "She knows about the vault. About the pendant being the key."
"Of course she does. Arthur tells her everything—thinks she'll help him take me down." He crossed the room, stopping inches from her. Close enough that she could see the flecks of blue in his gray eyes, the faint scar on his jaw from a boyhood accident. "But she's wrong. The vault isn't just about Arthur. It's about Clara's last wish—to protect Ethan. And I intend to keep it."
His gaze dropped to her throat, to the pendant. His thumb brushed the silver bird, featherlight, then he pulled back as if burned.
"Stay in your room until dinner," he said, turning away. "Don't wander. Cordelia's got eyes everywhere."
It was an order, but there was a flicker of something else—fear? Concern?
Ella nodded, but when she reached the door, she paused. "Why do you care if Arthur gets the vault? You said it's just his books."
He didn't look up. "Because Clara trusted me. And I've spent thirty years failing her."
That evening, dinner was a battlefield.
Cordelia sat at the table's head, acting as if she owned the house, while Sebastian brooded at the other end. The footmen moved silently, their heads down, as if afraid to breathe too loud.
Cordelia picked at her salad, her gaze lingering on Ella. "Tell me, Miss White—what's it like, being a charity case? Do you curtsy when he tells you to? Or does he let you skip the niceties?"
Ella set down her fork. "I'm here because my father needed help. Not because I enjoy your brother's company."
"Liar." Cordelia leaned forward, her green eyes glinting. "You're here for the money. For the life he's offering. Admit it—you'd crawl on your knees for a taste of this." She gestured to the chandelier, the silver, the opulence.
"Is that what you did?" Ella asked. "Crawl for Father's approval? For Arthur's favors?"
Cordelia's face flushed. "How dare you—"
"Enough." Sebastian's voice cut through the tension. He stood, his chair scraping the floor. "Cordelia, if you can't behave, leave."
"Oh, don't pretend you're angry because she's hurt my feelings." Cordelia laughed, bitter. "You're angry because she's right. You want her. Not for the pendant, not for Clara—for her. And it terrifies you."
Silence.
Ella's heart raced. You want her.
Sebastian's jaw tightened. He didn't deny it.
Instead, he walked to Ella's chair, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped an arm around her waist—tight, possessive, a claim. "Finish your dinner, Cordelia. Or I'll have Thorn show you to the door."
He led Ella out of the dining room, his grip firm but not painful. They walked up the stairs in silence, his hand burning through her dress, until they reached her bedroom door.
He let go, but didn't step back. "She's trying to get under your skin."
"I know." Ella's voice was shaky. "Why didn't you deny it? What she said—about you wanting me."
He stared at her, his eyes dark, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her. His head dipped, his breath fanning her cheek—then he stopped, jaw tight.
"Because it's none of her business." He stepped back, his usual冷漠 (coldness) slamming back into place. "Lock your door tonight. Cordelia's not above playing dirty."
He left, but his words lingered. It's none of her business. Not it's not true.
Ella touched the pendant, its metal warm again.
Downstairs, Cordelia watched from the window as Sebastian paced the garden, his hands in his pockets, his posture tense. She pulled out her phone, texting quickly:
He's attached. The girl's leverage. Use her.
Arthur's reply came seconds later:
Perfect.
Upstairs, Ella climbed into bed, but sleep wouldn't come. She thought of Sebastian's thumb brushing her pendant, of Cordelia's accusation, of the letter in Clara's box—"protect him".
The clock struck midnight.
A soft knock at her door.
She froze. Sebastian? Cordelia?
"Miss White?" Thorn's voice, low and urgent. "You need to see this. It's about your father."
Ella threw back the covers, her heart pounding. She unlocked the door, and Thorn slipped inside, holding a crumpled envelope.
"Found it in Lady Black's coat pocket," he said. "It's from the hospital."
Ella tore it open.
"Thomas White, status: critical. No next of kin listed. Prepare for organ donation."
Her vision blurred. No next of kin? She was his daughter. They'd been told he was stable.
"Cordelia did this," Thorn said, his voice grim. "She's trying to get you to run—so Arthur can grab the pendant."
Ella's hands shook. "Sebastian—he'll help. He has to."
Thorn's expression softened. "He doesn't know, miss. Not yet. But… be careful. Lady Black says he's 'weak' where you're concerned. And weakness gets people killed."
The door clicked shut.
Ella sank to the floor, the letter crumpled in her hand.
Weak. Sebastian Black, the man who controlled everything, weak for her?
She thought of his thumb on her pendant, of his jaw tight with anger when Cordelia insulted her, of the way he'd stood between them like a shield.
Weakness. Or something else.
She grabbed her coat, the pendant burning against her skin. She had to find Sebastian. Had to save her father.
But as she slipped into the corridor, she heard Cordelia's voice, low and scheming, from the staircase:
"Arthur's men are in the east wing. She'll run right into them."
Ella froze.
A trap.
And Sebastian—was he part of it? Or was he the only one who could save her?
The answer, she realized, might cost her everything.