Chapter 6 The Locked Drawer

I couldn't stop hearing his voice.

"What makes you think you've seen everything?"

It echoed through my mind like a question with no safe answer. Even after he left the study. Even after I tucked Micah into bed and pretended the walls weren't closing in.

Damon Blackwood didn't speak without purpose. He didn't throw words like darts-he placed them like landmines. Quiet. Precise. Lethal.

And that one line?

It told me there was more. So much more.

So I waited until morning, until the estate was calm and quiet and Micah was with the nanny. Then I went back to the east wing.

The halls were still, sunlight bleeding through the tall windows like a cathedral. I moved fast, my heart pounding like I was stealing from a god.

The study door creaked slightly as I pushed it open.

It looked untouched. Still, too still.

I moved straight to the drawer I'd seen yesterday-the one I'd already opened. The files were gone.

Cleaned up.

Expected.

But Damon had missed something.

On the far side of the desk, just beneath the bookshelf, there was a tiny wooden seam in the floorboard. A disturbance in the perfect polish. Barely noticeable.

I knelt, fingers tracing it.

A latch.

I pressed down.

The panel gave way with a soft click.

Inside: a narrow compartment, only big enough for a box.

And there it was.

A black, matte lockbox.

No label. No dust. No key in sight.

I yanked it out, my hands shaking slightly. It was heavier than it looked.

I didn't try to force it open-not yet. Instead, I tucked it under my sweater and slipped out of the room as quietly as I'd entered.

Whatever was in it, Damon didn't want me to see.

And I wasn't leaving until I knew why.

I took it to my room and locked the door. Micah was still with the nanny. I had time.

I examined the box closely-no digital lock, no keypad. Just a small steel keyhole.

A traditional lock, which meant there had to be a key.

And if Damon was as meticulous as I suspected, it had to be close.

A knock shattered the silence.

I nearly dropped the box.

"Miss Cruz?" Mrs. Voclain's voice filtered through the door. "Micah is missing."

My blood turned to ice.

"What?"

"He's not with Miss Heather. She thought he came back to you."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "How long has he been gone?"

"Twenty minutes-maybe longer."

I was already throwing the door open.

The grounds of the estate were massive, but not endless. Still, twenty minutes was enough time for a toddler to get into anything-or be taken.

I sprinted down the stone steps, past the courtyard, toward the garden paths.

"Micah!" I shouted. "Micah!"

No answer.

Not even a rustle.

Panic clawed up my throat. What if someone had taken him? What if this was punishment-for snooping, for digging?

What if this was Damon?

Before I could finish the thought, I heard a voice.

"LIANA!"

Damon's.

He was coming from the opposite side of the property, jacket half on, phone in hand. Behind him, two security guards ran with radios.

I turned. "Where is he?!"

Damon didn't answer.

He ran straight past me, toward the trees behind the vineyard. "Micah!" he shouted.

And then I heard it.

A giggle.

Then a shout. "MAMA! I found the rabbit!"

Micah popped out of the bushes, twigs in his hair, holding a tiny white rabbit in both hands like a trophy.

I dropped to my knees in pure relief.

Damon reached him first. He swept Micah into his arms like a man starved for air.

"Don't you ever run off again," he said, his voice low and harsh-but trembling.

Micah blinked. "But I wanted to show you! He was hiding!"

Damon held him tighter.

And for the first time, I saw it-real fear on his face. Not anger. Not dominance.

Just... terror.

He handed Micah to me, and I clutched my son so tightly he squirmed.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, baby."

Later that night, when Micah was asleep, I found Damon standing in the hallway outside his son's room. His shoulders were tense, his shirt wrinkled from pacing.

"You okay?" I asked.

He didn't look at me.

"I thought I lost him."

"You didn't."

"I would've burned the city to the ground."

The words hit harder than I expected.

He turned to me then, his eyes unreadable.

"You think I'm dangerous," he said. "But you don't know what danger looks like until someone tries to take the only thing that matters."

I hesitated. "Do you mean Micah... or me?"

He didn't answer.

Just walked past me.

I waited until the house was silent again.

Then I returned to the box.

This time, I knew where to look.

Damon's bedroom was locked. But the study's liquor cabinet wasn't.

Behind the bourbon, taped to the underside of the shelf, was a tiny black key.

Found it.

I took the box back to my room, locked the door, and clicked it open.

Inside were documents.

Dozens.

Photos. Reports. Emails.

But what stopped my breath was the first page:

"PROJECT GENEVA – SUBJECT FILE: L. CRUZ"

Date of initiation: January 12th, three years ago.

Status: MONITORED – HIGH INTEREST

Authorized by: D. Blackwood

My hands began to shake.

Geneva?

I pulled the next sheet.

It was a memo. Internal. Blackwood Holdings. Damon's signature at the bottom.

It detailed something called "target profiling"-an initiative used for vetting, recruiting, and monitoring women for "potential compatibility with donor-level partners."

I read it again.

And again.

Donor-level?

Recruiting?

And there, in the middle of the paragraph: "Subject Cruz selected due to genetic profile, behavioral indicators, and emotional vulnerability after financial hardship."

I couldn't breathe.

I'd thought it was a chance encounter.

I'd thought that night was a mistake. A moment of weakness. A spark that exploded too fast.

But it wasn't chance.

It was a setup.

I wasn't a woman who stumbled into a billionaire's bed.

I was chosen.

Engineered.

Bought.

The final sheet was a timeline.

At the bottom, in red ink:

"Pregnancy likely - monitor. Subject unaware."

And then:

"Initiate contact - 36 months post."

"She must never find out."

I dropped the papers.

But it was too late.

Because now, I knew.

I hadn't just been a mistake Damon wanted to fix.

I'd been part of his plan all along.