Chapter 9 ISLA'S POV

The Thorne library was where I sought some peace and quiet. It was my safe space and I was trapped inside with the memories of Cade's touch and the PR statement released that morning. It was a cold, expressive article that made our raw, hot, hotel-room passion sound like an insignificant social slip-up and we were responsible for our lives and the choices we make.

My professional reputation was being polished and my achievements were listed and emphasized. While I still felt uneasy as I read the article, all I could see was the scorn on Eleanor's face when she announced the situation had been addressed.

Eleanor always looked far from polite and her cold demeanor says it all. She looks like she underwent a few cosmetic surgeries and it just doesn't add up. Her flawless face and porcelain skin don't match the scar and aged skin on her hand. But I am here as a historian, not some private investigator.

I started from the new archival boxes Eleanor had delivered with passion. The sharp scent of old paper and dust was a welcome anesthetic.

"These are the final boxes from the family's private medical archives," Eleanor had announced, her voice sharp.

But there was something about her gaze today, it wasn't just the usual passive-aggressive judgment; it was sharper and more assessing, as if she were examining a piece on a chessboard. A cold shiver ran down my spine as she left. Her sharp, floral perfume filled the library like a warning.

I lost myself in sorting birth certificates, vaccination records, and routine physicals for a young Cade and Lucan. Seeing Cade's name on a form for a childhood physical, dated over two decades ago, sent a strange, tender ache through me. I was handling the records of the boy who had become the man who could unravel me with a single, heated look and touch.

The next box was older. The labels and tags dated it to the year of Cade's birth which turns out to be also my birth year.

"Whew! What a coincidence" I thought.

I worked through files about Cade's mother's prenatal vitamins, sonogram reports, and delivery schedules. It was all carefully recorded but wasn't properly filed.

And then I found it. A file that didn't belong. It was tucked between her obstetrical records and a box of information on a private nursing service.

It was a clinical photo of a newborn, the kind taken for hospital records. The baby was tiny, its face scrunched from crying. A standard white hospital bracelet was a blur around its little wrist.

My eyes, which have been trained to dissect even the smallest details, scanned the image carefully. And then on the hip of the delicate, newborn skin, was a small, distinct birthmark. A pale, coffee-colored patch in the perfect shape of a crescent moon.

My own hand flew to my left hip, pressing hard through the fabric of my skirt. I knew that shape. I'd traced its familiar curve my whole life. My "little moon kiss" as I always called it. My heart thudded in my chest, sweat forming under my breast and running down my stomach suddenly.

"No...It's a coincidence, must be a coincidence" I muttered.

I grabbed the photograph, squinting my eyes as I lifted it. My heart is frantically beating in a panic rhythm against my rib cage. I brought it closer, blinking at the blurred hospital bracelet. I could just make out the blurred letters. It was not my name. But the name on the file: T-H-O-R-N-E.

The air rushed from my lungs. The sudden confirmation felt like a physical blow. This wasn't just a picture of any baby. This was a picture of me, as a newborn in a file in my place of work.

Why? How?

The questions screamed in my head, what was my baby picture doing in the Thorne estate?. I was the child of James and Lena Campbell. And they were teachers before they passed in a car accident eight years ago, a tragedy Sabrina had saved me from. That was my story. It was the bedrock of my existence.

But this photograph, hidden in a file about me, threatened my very existence. Was I... Was I not who I thought I was?

A sudden, chill feeling filled the library. My parents' accident. The horrific, random tragedy that made me an orphan. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Sab had always said it felt... intentional. The way the truck had swerved. The police had called it a tragedy and the case was closed. But now, the word "murder" whispered in the darkest corner of my mind.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I shoved the photograph back into the folder, my movements quick and uncoordinated. I buried it at the bottom of the box, piling other files on top like a shallow grave for a truth I wasn't ready to face. I couldn't breathe. The majestic, mahogany shelves seemed to be closing in, the painted ceiling now peering down at me.

I stumbled to the grand window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The perfect gardens, the serene lake, the gate; it all looked different now. It wasn't just a workplace. It felt like a birthright. Or a crime scene.

And I was no longer just the historian. I was a piece of the evidence...I wouldn't rest until I fixed the puzzle.

I stood frozen at the window. The world outside was harmonized, but inside me, I was a confused mess. My birthmark. The baby...Was it me or someone else?

It had to be a mistake. An insane coincidence. There was a logical explanation... There had to be. Because the alternative that my life was a lie, that my parents' death was not an accident, that I was somehow linked to this was too terrifying to entertain.