Chapter 3 Damien's Curiosity

Damien Carter didn't believe in coincidences.

He sat at his cluttered desk in the downtown office of The Metro Lens, one hand wrapped around a lukewarm coffee, the other holding a printed press release. His brows furrowed as he scanned the headline for the third time.

> "Vaughn Group welcomes back co-heiress Isabella Vaughn in a private estate event hosted by Celeste Vaughn."

She was back.

After five years of silence.

After vanishing the same week her father died under strange circumstances.

Damien leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. A dozen memories tried to break through the walls he'd built around them-her laugh, her guarded smile, the late-night conversations that bled into something more. He hadn't seen her face since she walked out of his life without explanation. Not one word.

But now she was back. And Celeste wanted the world to know.

Why?

He swiveled in his chair and turned to the corkboard on his back wall-the one labeled "Vaughn Group / Quiet Collapse." Dozens of articles and confidential snippets were pinned in a web of string and highlighter marks. It was the story he had dropped after Harold Vaughn's death, when leads went quiet and sources disappeared.

The official narrative?

Natural causes.

A stress-induced heart attack in his study, alone. Clean. Convenient.

The unofficial one?

Covered tracks. Missing files. Whispered deals with foreign investors. A fortune protected too neatly. A daughter-Celeste-who stepped in with suspicious speed.

And Isabella... who vanished.

Damien rose and flipped through a nearby folder labeled Isabella – Private. Inside were photos of her from her days at university, early interviews she'd declined, one grainy shot of her leaving a boardroom in tears.

He hadn't even known he still had it.

He found her most recent image-one snapped at the estate dinner Celeste hosted the night before. She wore a black dress, elegant and cutting, her expression cool, unreadable.

But Damien saw it.

Behind the pose, behind the perfect exterior, her eyes still carried that weight.

She was hiding something.

And maybe-just maybe-she was finally ready to talk.

He dropped into his chair again and opened a locked file on his laptop. One labeled simply Vaughn Final. Inside were transcripts and voice memos, pieces of a puzzle no one else wanted to solve.

He played one. Harold Vaughn's voice crackled through the speakers.

> "I know what she's doing, Damien. She's cleaner than I ever was. Sharper. If anything happens to me-don't trust her. Not completely. Not ever."

He'd recorded it in passing-a casual comment after a late business dinner. At the time, Damien thought the old man was exaggerating. Now, it felt prophetic.

The "she" had always been up for interpretation. Celeste denied any tension between herself and her father after his death. Claimed they had mutual respect. But Damien had never believed it.

And Isabella's sudden departure that same week?

Too neat. Too quiet.

He grabbed his notebook and jotted down one word:

Motive?

As a journalist, he followed patterns. And this pattern was beginning to make a terrifying kind of sense.

Celeste controlled the company now. But if Isabella was back, maybe someone else had started asking questions, too.

He stood and paced the room, pulling a flash drive from his desk drawer-one he hadn't touched in years. On it were pieces of Vaughn Group security footage, discreetly acquired during his last attempt at the story. Some clips had been corrupted. Others were erased. But a few still showed glimpses of the side entrances. People coming and going the night Harold Vaughn died.

One, he hadn't looked at.

He plugged the drive in but paused before hitting play.

Not yet.

He wanted Isabella in the room when he did. Wanted to see her face.

More than that-he needed to know if she was still the girl he once trusted. Or someone else entirely.

He checked his watch. The Vaughns were hosting a gala that night-a fundraiser masked as a power display.

Where Celeste was, image mattered.

And where image mattered, truth slipped through the cracks.

He knew she'd be there.

Both of them.

Damien closed his laptop, pocketed the flash drive, and grabbed his coat. He didn't have an invitation-but when had that ever stopped him?

This wasn't just a story anymore.

It never had been.