Chapter 6
The key card died the second Elara slid it into the master-suite lock. A thin red blink pulsed over the brass plate, then vanished, leaving the door sealed with a final, mechanical click. Elara stood in the Thorne estate’s polished corridor, her hand still gripping her overnight bag. House arrest, dressed in silk and linen.
She turned, scanning the corridor. A camera sat above the molding, a discreet dome was tucked into the smoke-detector housing, and a black iris glinted in the frame of the mirror by the lift. The house did not pretend to be private; it only pretended to be civilized. Behind her, the security attendant who had escorted her from the front hall kept his expression blank.
“Your room is ready, Ms. Vance. Mr. Thorne asked that you remain here until dinner.”
“Asked,” Elara repeated, letting the word hang. “Or ordered?”
The man’s eyes flicked to the camera above the door. “I have a schedule to keep.”
Once he retreated, Elara reached into the lining of her coat. The liability list was still there, cold against her skin. She didn’t head for the bed; she moved to the corner of the room, scanning the crown molding until she spotted the blind spot—a sliver of shadow where the recessed lighting cut across the wall. She tucked the documents behind the heavy silk drapery, pinning them against the wall with a decorative tie-back. If they searched, they would find her clothes, but they wouldn't find the leverage.
A sharp, rhythmic rap at the door made her pulse jump. She smoothed her skirt and opened it to find Julian.
He didn't step inside. He stood in the threshold, his tie loosened, looking less like the polished Thorne heir and more like a man holding a collapsing structure together. He held a black folder—the surveillance dossier.
“For the staff, I assume I’m still your fiancée,” Elara said, her voice steady. “If you’re here to change the script, do it before someone opens the door.”
“The script stays,” Julian replied, his voice low. He stepped into the room and locked the door. “I need you to tell me who else knew you were at the Harrington flat in 2018.”
Elara felt the air thin. “Is that why you brought me here? To interrogate me about an apartment that doesn't exist anymore?”
“Don’t,” he snapped, his restraint fraying. He moved to the desk, his movements sharp. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the folder. “My father is pulling every record from that year. He’s not just looking for the ledger anymore, Elara. He’s looking for a person.”
“He won’t find them,” she said, though the lie tasted like ash.
Julian turned, his gaze locking onto hers with a ferocity that made her breath hitch. “He doesn't have to find them. He just has to prove you were there. And if he finds out why—”
He stopped, his jaw tightening. He turned abruptly and retreated toward his private office down the hall. Elara followed, driven by an instinct that overrode her caution. She found him in his office, the door ajar. He was hunched over his desk, the glow of a monitor illuminating the raw, haunted lines of his face. On the screen, a surveillance window played on a loop: the Thorne estate’s front gate, grainy and bright.
Her son crossed the frame, a backpack slung over his shoulder, pausing to laugh at something the driver said. The image was enlarged, pinned to Julian’s private wall like an accusation.
Elara stopped in the doorway. The sound of her arrival made Julian freeze. He didn't turn, but his shoulders rose, his hand hovering over the keyboard as if to hide the screen.
“Julian?” she whispered.
He turned, and the mask was gone. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a dawning, terrifying recognition. He looked from the screen to her, his breath hitching.
Before he could speak, the room was ripped open by the shrill, mechanical scream of a fire alarm. The sound was deafening, a jagged intrusion that pulsed through the walls. Julian lunged for the desk, his hand trembling as he reached for the power button, but the screen flickered to a full-screen freeze of the boy’s face—a perfect, unmistakable copy of Julian’s own eyes.
Julian looked at her, his composure finally shattering. “Elara,” he began, his voice raw, but the alarm drowned him out, forcing them into the sudden, suffocating proximity of the room as the overhead sprinklers hissed to life.