Chapter 4 4

The storm came without warning.

Wind howled against the estate's high glass walls, and rain lashed the mansion like it was punishing the past. Thunder cracked somewhere overhead, rattling the lights. Liana sat curled on a chaise in the east wing reading room, but the words on the page refused to make sense.

Her phone buzzed.

Clara:

Mr. Thorne is unavailable for the evening. Please do not attempt to visit the south wing tonight.

Liana stared at the message.

Unavailable.

Like he was some sort of service.

She tossed the phone aside and stood, restless. The storm seemed to echo something inside her-loud, aching, and trapped behind invisible walls.

Her feet moved without thinking. Through the halls. Past the gallery she'd memorized. Into corridors where paintings were covered and lights dimmed to save power.

And then-she found it.

A door she hadn't seen before.

Tucked behind a grandfather clock.

Unmarked. No keypad. No camera above it. Just... a door.

She tried the handle.

Locked.

But then she remembered the skeleton key Clara had once mentioned-kept in a drawer in the office for emergencies. Liana had no idea what kind of "emergencies" applied in a place like this, but she moved fast, stealing back through the halls with the wind screaming behind her.

She retrieved the key.

It fit.

The door opened with a long, painful creak.

And she stepped into the only room in the mansion that felt... untouched.

The room smelled of old smoke, paper, and faded sorrow.

A piano sat in the corner, dust coating its lid. A glass of whiskey, long evaporated, perched on the side table. Books stacked in haphazard towers. A jacket hung over the back of a leather chair. Photos on the walls.

She turned slowly, heart in her throat.

Photos.

Of him.

Not recent. Not post-accident. But before.

A younger Blaise Thorne in crisp suits, smiling tightly at galas, arm around a woman she didn't recognize-tall, elegant, laughing like she'd never known pain.

In another, Blaise sat beside a man who looked almost identical-same jawline, same cold eyes, but smug.

A twin?

She stepped closer to the desk. Pages torn from notebooks, scribbled with formulas and financial projections. A news clipping caught her eye:

CEO Blaise Thorne Presumed Dead in Tech Compound Explosion - Brother Takes Over as Interim

Her blood ran cold.

That smug twin had taken over his empire?

Her hands shook as she picked up a second clipping.

Fiancée Celeste Vaughn Cancels Wedding Plans Following Tragedy

Celeste.

The woman in gold from the gala.

The one who said "we used to be close."

This room-this sealed chamber-was everything Blaise had left behind. Everything he refused to face. And somehow, it had been waiting for her.

Behind the piano was a painting, face down on the floor.

She turned it over.

It was of her.

No.

Not her.

But a woman who looked hauntingly like her. Same eyes. Same curve of the jaw. Same solemn mouth.

Only older.

A sister?

A ghost?

She didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

Not until the door slammed shut.

"Do you know what you've done?"

His voice wasn't calm this time.

It wasn't smooth or robotic or controlled.

It was furious.

Liana spun.

He stood behind the curtain-as always-but his silhouette shook with rage.

"You had no right to come in here," he growled.

"You told me I had full access."

"Not to this."

She stepped forward. "Why? What are you hiding, Blaise?"

He didn't answer.

"Your brother took your company. Celeste left you. You were buried by everyone you trusted. And you still won't let me see who you are? After everything?"

He said nothing for so long she thought he might disappear again.

Then:

"She looked like you."

Her breath hitched. "The woman in the painting?"

"My sister. Amelia. She died two weeks before the explosion."

Liana stared at the veil. "I'm so sorry."

"She was the only person who ever loved me without condition."

Another pause.

"I see her in you. The way you move. The way you fight. That's why I chose you, Liana. That's why I picked you. Not pity. Not convenience. Because something in you reminded me of the only family I didn't have to buy."

The curtain moved slightly-as if he'd touched it from his side.

"I'm not her," Liana whispered.

"I know."

"And I'm not a mirror to your past."

"I know that too."

"Then stop hiding from me."

The air trembled.

"I'm not hiding from you," he said, voice breaking. "I'm hiding from what you'll see."

"I've seen worse," she said. "I've been poor. Broken. Desperate. But I'm still here."

She stepped closer.

"Let me see you, Blaise."

His voice came so low, it barely reached her.

"Not yet."

And she knew-deep down-it wasn't rejection.

It was fear.

And for the first time since she'd signed that cursed contract, she felt not like his prisoner.

But his anchor.