Damien's POV
She didn't take his hand.
But she didn't walk away, either.
Aria stood at the threshold of the Thornewell Estate like it was the edge of a battlefield—coat pulled tight, eyes sharper than he'd ever seen them. Not angry. Not afraid.
Resolved.
And somehow, that was worse.
He dropped his hand and stepped aside. "Come in."
She did.
No hesitations this time. No heels clicking like warnings. Just quiet footsteps that trailed behind him as he led her into the atrium. A fire was lit. The scent of cedarwood lingered in the hall. He hated how much he remembered about her—how her skin had smelled like white peonies and rain the last time they stood this close without yelling.
Damien watched her eyes scan the space like a forensic investigator. She wasn't here for comfort. She was here to unearth something. To prove to herself that if she peeled back every lie, there might still be something worth saving beneath it.
He understood that. Too well.
"I want access," she said as he closed the door behind them.
He turned to her. "To what?"
"Everything. Your family records. Private correspondence. Holdings. Archives. Everything connected to Project Nightingale and the Valehart acquisition."
"That's…" He paused. "That's not a small request."
"I'm not asking," she said, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "I'm giving you a chance. To be on the right side of this."
Damien met her gaze.
Then nodded.
---
Upstairs – Thornewell Estate Archives
Dust clouded the air as Damien opened the locked cabinet. A set of narrow drawers lined the inside—legal files, land records, private correspondences sealed in wax. It had once belonged to Elias Thornewell. Damien hadn't opened it in years.
Not since the day his father died and left behind a legacy too heavy to carry with pride.
Aria stood beside him in silence, gloved fingers ready to pull apart the past.
He watched her reach for the top drawer.
"You sure?" he asked, voice quieter now.
"No," she admitted. "But I've run out of things to pretend about."
She opened the drawer.
Inside, folders were labeled in Elias's precise hand. Nightingale. Valehart. Boston Clinic. J. Thornewell.
Her breath hitched.
She reached for the one marked Valehart.
Damien placed a hand gently over hers. "We read it together."
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
They pulled the file from the cabinet and set it on the long oak table in the center of the room.
---
The Documents Were Brutal in Their Simplicity
A copy of George Valehart's sealed agreement. This one included annotations in Elias's handwriting: "Clean. Keep daughter focused on scholarship incentives."
Financial statements showing funds transferred to a Boston clinic under aliases.
A draft letter—unsigned—from Juliette, addressed to Damien. The first line read: "I'm not mad. But you can't save both of us."
Aria's hand trembled.
She reached for the letter, unfolded it gently.
> "I know you think I don't see it. But I do. The way you look at Aria. The way she pretends not to look back. I'm not angry. But I can't be in the middle anymore. Not when everything is built on a lie. I'm leaving for the clinic. It's better this way. Don't follow me. And don't lie to her. Let her remember me kind."
She pressed the letter flat against the table with both palms, as if bracing herself against its weight.
"She knew," Aria whispered.
"She always did," Damien said. "She just never said it out loud."
He stared at the page, at the smudge where a tear had fallen before the ink dried.
"She wasn't the villain," Aria added.
"No. Just the collateral."
Aria swallowed hard. "Do you think she ever forgave us?"
"I think she never blamed us."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Aria pulled a thin folder from deeper in the drawer.
It was unlabeled.
Inside: photographs. Black-and-white stills of an estate in upstate New York. Survey maps. Land deeds.
And one photo Aria froze on.
"That's my father," she said slowly.
The image was blurry—George Valehart standing beside a large, unfamiliar stone building, holding a box. His expression unreadable.
Damien leaned over her shoulder. "That's not Thornewell land."
"No," she said, voice tightening. "That's Hawthorne Hill."
He frowned. "I don't know it."
"You should." She turned to him, fire kindling in her voice. "Because it's been listed under your holding company since 1961. My father never sold it."
Damien stiffened. "That's not possible. We don't own anything under—"
Aria grabbed her phone and pulled up an image she'd bookmarked. An old article from a local historical archive.
> "Thornewell Holdings Acquires Historic Property from the Valehart Lineage for Preservation Efforts."
> Listed trustee: Callum Thornewell.
Damien's blood chilled.
"I never signed off on that," he said. "Callum didn't even work for the company in 2021."
"Apparently, he didn't need to."
Aria dropped the phone onto the table. "He forged it, didn't he?"
"I'll find out."
"You'd better," she said, voice razor-edged. "Because that property is the only thing left that carries our name."
---
Later – Garden Terrace
The air was thick with the scent of damp magnolias. The sky had turned to velvet above them. Aria leaned against the stone balustrade, arms crossed, the wind teasing strands of her hair loose.
Damien stood beside her. Close enough to feel her heat. Far enough not to intrude.
"I don't want your apology," she said after a long while.
He nodded.
"I want your help."
"You have it."
"You say that now. But this doesn't end with one piece of land. If Callum forged documents, that means he's already prepared to bury the rest."
"He won't touch you."
She turned to him, brows lifting. "You think I'm worried about myself?"
He paused.
Then shook his head. "No. You never were."
She exhaled. "I just want the truth. All of it. Even the parts that make my hands shake. Even the ones that make me hate you."
He looked at her, solemn. "Then I'll stand beside you while you do."
Silence pulsed.
Then, softer: "Even if you never forgive me."
Aria finally looked at him. The pain hadn't left her eyes—but it had shifted. Changed shape. No longer sharp with betrayal, but rounder now. Grief-edged.
"I don't know if I will," she said.
"I'm not asking you to."
They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the wind stir the petals on the trees. Two people caught in the wreckage of other people's decisions—trying to find something solid in the ash.
---
Midnight – Aria's Apartment
She was alone again.
The file was open on her bed. The letters. The maps. The proof. Her father's burden laid bare.
Aria traced the edge of the land deed with her nail. "Hawthorne Hill," she whispered.
She remembered the stories he used to tell—about growing up on those wild acres. How her mother once planted a magnolia tree there. How the soil was "honest," he said. "Didn't pretend to be more than what it was."
Aria picked up her phone.
Damien had sent nothing else.
No pressure.
She typed:
> ARIA: I want to go to Hawthorne Hill.
Then deleted it.
Typed again:
> ARIA: I need to see what my father left behind.
And hit send.
The reply came seconds later.
> DAMIEN: I'll take you.
No promises. No questions.
Just a road back to the beginning.