Chapter 8 Secrets Behind the Glass

Ayla's POV

The west wing of the Blackwood Estate was quieter than the rest. Off-limits to most staff, according to Claire. But that morning, I volunteered to deliver a tray of tea to one of the rarely used guest lounges nearby. A simple excuse. A calculated move.

I wasn't here to serve tea.

I was here to find answers.

The West Wing housed the private archives, guest records, and-most importantly-whatever remained of my mother's erased history in this place. She'd once walked these halls. I needed proof. And something told me that if I didn't get ahead of Damien's suspicion, he'd dig up the truth first-and use it against me.

I found the lounge and quietly placed the tray on the side table. No one in sight. Just the faint hum of a ventilation unit and the scent of old leather and lemon polish. The moment the coast was clear, I slipped through the side corridor toward the locked records room.

Claire had warned me once, half-joking, "That's where the ghosts live. Dusty memories and Blackwood scandals." She hadn't been wrong.

I stopped in front of the dark mahogany door. Of course, it was locked. But years of fixing the locks in our crumbling old house with bobby pins had taught me a thing or two.

Click.

A gentle creak sounded as the door opened up.

The dim room revealed natural morning light that dropped onto floor-to-ceiling cabinets and drawers, and stacks of labeled boxes. The room immediately assaulted me with the scent of old ink and paper.

I didn't have much time.

I scanned the drawers for anything labeled Sinclair. Nothing.

Then I spotted a cabinet marked Closed Employee Records.

My fingers trembled as I pulled it open.

The files were arranged alphabetically. Sinclair... Sinclair...

There.

Celeste Sinclair.

My throat tightened as I pulled the file free. My mother's name, in neat script, printed on a label now yellowed with age. I opened it slowly.

A staff photo. She looked so young. Almost too young to have carried so much sorrow. Her hair was pulled back, her smile tight.

Below it, her employment dates-1996 to 1999. Hired as a private assistant. Terminated without reason listed.

But then I found it.

A note paper-clipped to the back:

"Discretion advised. File sealed at the request of Dominic Blackwood."

A wave of cold ran down my spine.

Sealed?

Why?

I flipped through the last few pages-only to find them missing. Torn out.

Just as I was about to refile it, I heard footsteps. Sharp, deliberate.

I froze.

A soft creaking noise followed my entrance through the door.

Damien.

The moment he spotted the folder in my hands, his expression changed.

During that moment, we remained silent to each other. A heavy atmosphere dominated the space.

A deep, dangerous tone marked his query when he asked, "Why are you here?"

I gripped the file in tight fingers to slow my rapid heartbeat."I was... curious."

His jaw clenched. "That's not your job."

"I know."

He stepped inside, his gaze locked on mine. "You lied to me."

I straightened. "Did I?"

"You said you didn't know the Sinclair Trust. You said you didn't know the name meant anything."

I swallowed. "Because I didn't want this. I didn't want to be found out like a criminal."

He stared at me while maintaining complete silence. His sight shifted from my face to the paper I held. "That's your mother's, isn't it?"

I hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes."

His expression didn't soften. But something in his stance shifted-just slightly. "Why now? Why come here? What do you want?"

My voice came out quieter than I expected. "I want the truth."

He folded his arms. "About what?"

"Why did he abandon us. Why did she never get to tell her side? Why I had to grow up watching her suffer for a decision he made in silence."

Damien exhaled, the fire in his eyes dimming just a little. "You think exposing him will bring closure?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "No. But pretending this never happened won't either."

Another long pause.

"My father did something I never truly understood," he whispered. Searching too deeply will lead to discoveries you might dislike, according to your father.

"I already don't."

He gave one nod before continuing toward the exit, when he paused at the threshold.

He warned me before he left without turning around. Whenever someone encounters the truth, they end up getting burned.