Chapter 3 Secrets

Silence filled the room, stretching the space between them like an invisible wire-tense, waiting to snap.

Liana's heart pounded as Celeste's words echoed in her mind.

"Does she know the last person who tried that disappeared?"

Her fingers instinctively tightened around the folder, as if it were a shield against the sudden chill in the room.

The woman in red-Celeste-didn't blink, her gaze drilling into Liana with the weight of an unspoken challenge.

Liana refused to flinch.

She turned to Killian, expecting some kind of reaction-denial, amusement, anything-but he simply leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he spoke.

"You're being dramatic, Celeste."

Celeste's lips curved into a smirk, the kind that promised she knew more than she let on. She crossed her arms, her blood-red nails tapping rhythmically against her elbowcrossed.

"Am I?" Her gaze flicked back to Liana. "Did he tell you about the last writer he hired?"

Liana hesitated. She had done her research before accepting the job. Killian Vaughn was notoriously private. No past biographies, no tell-all books.

If there was another writer before her, they had left no trace.

"Who was the last writer?" she asked.

Celeste tilted her head. "No one knows. Isn't that interesting?"

The room felt colder.

Liana turned back to Killian, waiting for him to refute the claim. But Vaughn didn't rush to explain. He didn't bristle or scoff.

He simply watched.

And that was more unnerving than anything Celeste had said.

His silence was an answer in itself.

Killian's voice was calm,. "Celeste, we're done here."

Celeste let out a small laugh. "Of course. I wouldn't want to scare away your new pet project."

She turned on her heel and walked out, the faint scent of expensive perfume lingering behind her.

The door shut with an eerie finality.

Liana exhaled, finally releasing the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She turned back to Killian, her pulse still racing. "What the hell was that?

Killian ran a hand over his jaw, looking vaguely irritated. "Celeste Laurent," he said, as if that was explanation enough.

Liana folded her arms. "And who exactly is Celeste Laurent?"

He hesitated, then sighed. "My ex-wife."

Liana raised an eyebrow. "Fiancée? Didn't take you for the marrying type."

"Neither did I," he admitted. He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his black dress shirt. "It was... a business arrangement. One that ended poorly."

"Clearly."

Liana didn't miss the shift in his tone. He was done talking about it.

Fine.

Killian didn't elaborate, and Liana could tell he wouldn't. .If he wanted to keep his secrets, she would just have to dig them out herself.

She looked down at the thick folder. "You said everything I need is in here."

He nodded. "Start reading. We'll talk tomorrow."

With that, he stood and walked out, leaving her alone with the truth.

Or at least, his version of it.

Liana sat in her assigned room that night, staring at the folder on the desk.

The mansion was too quiet, the kind of silence that made her skin prickle.

She had been through hell to get here-fired, blacklisted, threatened-and now, she was locked inside a billionaire's estate, tasked with unraveling a man who had built his empire on secrets.

A part of her wondered if she should have walked away.

But the other part-the part that needed answers-was already flipping open the folder.

At first, it was normal.

Basic information. Birthplace. Education. Early business ventures.

But the deeper she went, the more the details began to unravel.

Killian Vaughn had no childhood records before the age of ten.

His first company had been started with private capital-but no investors were listed.

He had no known family. No parents. No siblings. No relatives who had ever spoken to the press.

No past relationships, except for Celeste.

It was too clean.

This wasn't just a man guarding his privacy.

This was a man who had erased his past.

And the question was-why?

Liana couldn't sleep.

She lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the folder pressing against her mind.

Something about this felt dangerous.

With a sigh, she got up, wrapping a sweater around herself. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the hardwood floors as she stepped into the dimly lit hallway.

She needed more than the sanitized version of Killian Vaughn's life.

She needed to see the real man.

The estate was a fortress-strategic security cameras, motion detectors.

Every inch of it controlled.

She passed by an office-locked.

Another door-locked.

Then, she reached the study.

She pressed lightly on the handle.

It opened.

Her pulse quickened as she stepped inside.

The study was massive-lined with towering bookshelves, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the vast, moonlit estate. An expensive whiskey decanter sat on the desk, half-empty.

But what caught her attention was the safe hidden behind a painting.

Old habits kicked in.

Liana had spent years as an investigative journalist. She knew how to find the things people didn't want found.

She knelt beside it, fingers grazing the edges. Biometric lock. No way in.

But beside it-a stack of old photographs.

She hesitated-then picked one up.

The photograph was old, the edges slightly curled with time, the glossy surface dulled by years of handling. It had once been a pristine memory, but now it was deliberately altered-tampered with in a way that made her stomach tighten.

Killian Vaughn stood on the left side of the image, a teenager no older than sixteen or seventeen. Even in youth, his posture was stiff, controlled-as if he had already learned to mask his emotions. He wore a sharp black suit, tailored despite his still-growing frame. His hair, slightly longer than he kept it now, was neatly combed back, but there was a shadow of something in his expression-something wary, almost reluctant.

His hands were at his sides, but not relaxed. Tense. Uncertain. Like they should have been doing something else. Like he wasn't entirely comfortable standing there.

Beside him stood another man-taller, broader.

He wore an immaculate three-piece suit, the kind only old money and powerful men wore, the silk tie perfectly knotted, the cufflinks gleaming even in the faded image. Everything about him radiated authority.

But his face-

His face had been burned out of the picture.

Not scratched. Not blurred.

Burned.

The heat had eaten through the center of his face, leaving behind only a jagged black hole where his features should have been. The burn marks stretched outward, charred edges creeping like veins across the photograph.

Whoever had done this hadn't wanted to simply remove the man. They had wanted to obliterate him.

The only things left untouched were his hand resting on young Killian's shoulder-a grip that seemed too firm, possessive-and the expensive signet ring on his finger, a dark gemstone glinting against the pale print of the photo.

"What are you doing?"

Liana froze.

Killian stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.

Shit.

Killian stepped into the room, his presence suddenly intimidating in the low light.

"You like snooping?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.

Liana straightened, refusing to look guilty. "I like the truth."

His gaze flicked to the photo in her hand.

Then, in a move so swift she barely saw it, he snatched it away.

"Careful, Liana," he murmured, tucking the picture into his pocket. "Some truths don't need to be uncovered."

She swallowed hard. "Who was in the photo?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he turned away.

"Stay out of my private affairs," he warned.

"But I'm supposed to write your story."

He smiled, but it was cold.

"Then write the version I give you."

Liana held his gaze, unflinching.

She wasn't stupid.

Killian Vaughn wasn't just some self-made billionaire.

There was something beneath the surface.

And she was going to find out what it was.

Even if it killed her