The pills made everything softer around the edges.
I sat in the morning sunroom watching the Pacific crash against cliffs through diamond-sparkling windows, and felt… peaceful. The constant ache in my chest had dulled to a manageable throb. For the first time in months, I wasn't choking on grief.
It should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like betrayal.
"Your tea, Mrs. Thorne." Lydia's voice was carefully neutral as she set the china service beside me. Earl Grey with bergamot, prepared exactly how I liked it—another preference Adrian had noted with disturbing accuracy.
"Thank you." I reached for the cup, movements languid and strange. Was this what numbness felt like? This cotton-wrapped distance from my own emotions?
Lydia lingered, adjusting the sugar bowl, straightening perfect napkins. Through the medication haze, I noticed the tension in her shoulders, how her gray eyes kept darting toward the doorway.
"Is everything alright?"
She froze. For a moment, I thought she might answer honestly. Then her professional mask slipped back into place.
"Of course, ma'am. Will there be anything else?"
"Lydia." I caught her wrist gently, feeling her rapid pulse. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Her face went white, and she glanced nervously toward the doorway. "I should return to my duties."
"Please." Something in her demeanor was cutting through the pharmaceutical fog, sharpening my focus. "Talk to me. You're the only person in this house who knew me before."
Lydia's composure cracked. Suddenly she was gripping my hands with desperate strength. "Mrs. Thorne—Calla—there's something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you months ago."
Ice flooded my veins, washing away the pill-induced calm. "What is it?"
She looked over her shoulder, then leaned closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"It's about the accident. About Mr. Alaric."
My heart stopped. "What about Alaric?"
"There was a witness." The words tumbled out like steam escaping a kettle. "A homeless man who lived in the ravine below the crash site. He saw the whole thing."
"The police interviewed all witnesses—"
"Not him." Lydia's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "He was afraid to come forward. But he found me at the market last week. He remembered me from when I used to bring Mr. Alaric there as a boy."
The teacup slipped from my fingers, shattering against marble in an explosion of porcelain and hot liquid. "What did he see?"
"He saw Mr. Alaric walk away from the car." The confession broke something in Lydia's chest, and suddenly she was crying—silent, desperate tears. "Hurt, bleeding, but alive. He walked away from that crash, Calla. Someone pulled him from the wreckage before it caught fire."
The world tilted sideways. Alaric was alive. Had been alive this whole time while I grieved, while I married his brother, while I let Adrian's pills and manipulation remake me.
"Where is he?" My voice was raw, desperate.
"I don't know." Lydia gripped my hands tighter.
"The man said whoever took him loaded him into a van. Black, expensive-looking. No license plates visible."
"We have to tell the police—"
"Who would believe us?" Lydia's laugh was bitter. "A homeless drug addict and a housekeeper against one of the most powerful families in the state?"
She was right. Adrian's influence reached everywhere—law enforcement, media, medical establishments.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I've watched what he's doing to you." Lydia's voice broke completely. "The pills, the isolation, the cameras. You're disappearing, piece by piece, just like—" She stopped, hand flying to her mouth.
"Just like what?"
"Nothing. I've said too much already."
"Lydia, please. If you know something about Alaric—"
"I don't know anything concrete." But her eyes said otherwise. "I just have suspicions. About the east wing, about Dr. Hayes's frequent visits, about documents I've seen in Mr. Adrian's study."
Documents. The word sent electricity through my system, burning away the medication's numbing effect. If there were answers, they would be in Adrian's private sanctuary.
"What kind of documents?"
"Medical records. Legal papers. Things that didn't make sense—"
Footsteps in the hallway made us both freeze. Heavy, measured, unmistakably Adrian's approach. Lydia went pale, scrambling to gather porcelain pieces.
"Don't let him know we talked," she whispered frantically. "Promise me. If he realizes—"
The footsteps were getting closer. Adrian's voice murmured into his phone.
"I promise," I breathed, then louder: "I'm so sorry, Lydia. I don't know how I was so clumsy."
She understood immediately, falling into the familiar rhythm of servant and mistress. "No harm done, ma'am. I'll have it cleaned up."
Adrian appeared in the doorway as Lydia deposited the last porcelain into her apron. His silver eyes swept the scene—my pale face, Lydia's nervous efficiency, the damp spot where tea had spilled.
"Everything alright?" Concerned, solicitous, but with a sharp edge of suspicion.
"Just a minor accident," I said, forcing steadiness despite the earthquake in my chest. "The cup slipped."
"The medication can cause dizziness," he said, moving to my side with predatory grace. "Perhaps you should lie down."
"I'm fine." Too sharp, too defensive. I saw his eyes narrow and softened my tone. "Just embarrassed about the mess."
"No need for embarrassment." His hand settled possessively on my shoulder. "Lydia, please be more careful with the good china. Mrs. Thorne is still adjusting to her medication."
The dismissal was clear. Lydia curtsied and fled with her apron full of broken porcelain. I watched my last ally disappear like smoke.
"You look upset," Adrian observed, fingers massaging my shoulders. "Did something happen?"
*My husband is alive. You've been lying for months. This marriage is built on fraud.*
"Just thinking about Alaric," I said instead. "The tea service was his favorite."
Adrian's hands stilled briefly before resuming their pressure. "Perhaps we should put away anything that triggers painful memories. I want you to heal, not torture yourself with reminders of what's gone."
*What's* gone. Not *who's* gone. An interesting choice.
"I think I will lie down," I said, needing distance to process Lydia's revelation. "The pills make me drowsy."
"Of course." Adrian helped me up, his touch solicitous and completely repulsive now. "I'll be in my study if you need anything. Important business to attend to."
His study. Where documents that didn't make sense might hold the key to finding Alaric.
"Will you be long?"
"Most of the afternoon. Board calls, contract negotiations." He pressed an ice-cold kiss to my forehead. "Rest well."
I made my way upstairs on unsteady legs. Alaric was alive. Somewhere out there, hurt and possibly imprisoned, but alive. And the answers were hidden in Adrian's private sanctum.
As I reached the landing, I heard his study door close, followed by low murmur as he began his calls. The house settled into the afternoon quiet.
It would never be a better opportunity.
I slipped off my shoes and padded barefoot down the hallway, pulse thundering. The study door was closed but not locked—Adrian's arrogance working in my favor.
The handle turned silently, and I slipped inside like a thief.
Adrian's study was a shrine to power—dark wood, leather books, expensive art. But the massive desk drew my attention, its surface cleared except for a laptop and neat stack of files.
The first file was financial—merger documents. The second contained architectural plans for what looked like a medical facility. But it was the third file that made my blood turn to ice water.
Medical records. Dozens, for patients with unfamiliar names. But the facility name was familiar: Rosegate Medical Pavilion. Where I'd lost my baby, where Dr. Hayes practiced, where Adrian had unusual influence.
I flipped through pages with growing horror, seeing references to "memory modification," "behavioral conditioning," "genetic compatibility testing." Whatever was happening at Rosegate went far beyond normal medicine.
At the bottom, a document that made my knees buckle.
Official Birth Certificate – Name: Julius Thorne. Status: Stillborn.
But no corresponding death certificate. No medical notes. No burial record.
Just a single red stamp: "Filed by proxy. Details sealed."
Julius had been real. Another Thorne never spoken of.
And someone had erased the rest.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway shattered my paralysis. Heavy, familiar, approaching fast. Adrian's voice, sharp with annoyance as he ended his call early.
I shoved the file back into the stack, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped everything. The footsteps were at the door now, and I could hear the handle beginning to turn.
I dove behind the massive leather couch just as the door opened, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain it would give me away.
"—told you I don't want to be disturbed," Adrian's voice cut through the room like a blade. "This better be important."
I pressed myself against the cold leather, barely breathing, as his footsteps crossed to the desk.
"What do you mean, she was asking questions?"