Celeste knelt on the dust-covered floor of a mansion’s storage room, where a single bulb hung above her and cast a dim circle of illumination. The air was thick with mothballs and ancient wood, and the dust-buried piles of forgotten furniture rose around her like silent sentinels. She opened a battered cardboard box, pulse racing with the hope of unearthing something precious or painful.
Inside, she found a roll of canvas. Unfolding it carefully, she revealed a half-finished canvas painted in bright colours. Her breath hitched — those were her own young brushstrokes, remnants from the years when her parents still thought that she could win the art world. Memories rushed back: her mother’s gentle support and her father’s proud smile every time she revealed a new sketch. Once they’d saved every spare dollar for art classes and supplies, she remembered, helping ignite her creative fire before the reality of life dragged her from her paintings.
There were more sketches, charcoal outlines of the landscapes she was going to see, throwaway sketches of fantastical characters that danced on the page with broad strokes. Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled the dreams she allowed to shrivel when, after her parents died, she had to pursue money to survive. Each charcoal line marked a tale of missed childhood and dashed dreams.
A phone vibrated inside her jacket pocket, snapping her from her bittersweet memory. She fished it out with shaking fingers, scanning a cryptic message: There is a buyer you should meet before the sale begins. They can help you. A chill ran through her. She read it twice, her pulse pumping with some combination of hope and caution. Who would contact her anonymously, saying they were about to lose their family home in a foreclosure auction?
It made her stomach knot as she balanced the risk. The threats Soren made hung in her mind, and Caspian’s desperate attempts to prevent the foreclosure felt stalled against corporate roadblocks. Maybe this mysterious benefactor was a trap, or maybe it was the last lifeline she needed. She looked at the paintings lying around her, painful reminders of a once-boundless potential that now flickered and dimmed.
Puffing out a ragged breath, she slowly placed the artwork back in the box, promising herself she wouldn’t again bury her dreams. The cryptic missive sparkled with promise — if she was brave enough to pursue it. The adrenaline pounding through her head, she stood up from the storage room, keeping the rolled-up canvas pressed against her vested bosom, teetering on the edge of a decision that might well decide how the rest of her future was spelt.
Far down the mansion’s corridor, the lights had been muted to a warm, low glow. Celeste stood with her back against the wall, eyes shut, trying to calm the churn of anxiety in her skull. Steps were firm, deliberate and measured. She looked up to see Caspian coming toward her, shirt sleeves rolled up and hair ruffled from a day of frantic calls. His eyes fixed on her troubled face, concern lacing his features.
He leaned in, a tentative hand on her shoulder. “You seem like you’re hanging on by a thread,” he said gently, voice thick with fatigue. She forced a tight smile. “Maybe I am,” she said, then reminded herself of the cryptic message about a mysterious buyer. “The clock is ticking, and the auction is tomorrow.” Those words settled in her chest like lead, suffocating her hope.
Caspian came closer, lips forming a determined line. “I’m not going to let them take your home,” he said, the fierce certainty flaming in his eyes surprising her. The heat of his hand penetrated the cloth of her blouse, relaxing her panicked mind for a moment. She thought of how many times he’d sworn to act in her interest, each pledge subverted by Soren’s cold-blooded machinations. But something in his tone soothed the tension clutching her heart.
She studied his face, reading it for the toll of endless obstacles. Fine lines raised around his eyes, markers of sleepless nights and tireless fights against corporations. She understood he was as terrified as she was, but he hid behind a veneer of control. “I don’t want you crushed by this,” she said, swallowing a spike of guilt for adding her burdens to his. “My house… I know you care about it, but you want your inheritance.”
He let his hand fall to wrap around her fingers instead. “We will take care of both,” he said quietly.
“Eventually, Soren’s smear campaign will get old. “Unless we stand together, push back.” She felt tears pricking, distressed by how badly she wanted to believe his reassurance. Every new tabloid headline branding her a “gold-digger” gnawed at her self-assurance, but his intense gaze provided a brief haven.
In that silence, tension crackled between them, a shared need swelling just underneath. For a split second, she let him hold her, cheek against his shoulder. Mol wasn’t even sure how long they’d been in there until the corridor lights had flickered, pulling them back into reality.
Somewhere across town, after all, Soren no doubt was scheming for his next attack, feeding every nasty rumour. What was meant to be their moment of intimacy lay in ruins behind them, both of them preparing for the inevitable storm ahead.
Talia sat at the great oak desk of Soren’s private study, the room illuminated only by dim lamplight. She’d gotten in while he was away, intent on searching through his personal papers for anything that would tip the scale. A faint draft ghosted across her shoulders, stirring up the dim musk of old books and leather. Anxiety knotted her stomach as she rifled through the folders, acutely aware of how angry Soren would be if he caught her.
Her heart raced when she found a locked drawer. Recalling a hidden key she’d seen once before in a decorative vase, she found it and opened the drawer. Inside was a bundle of documents with Hayes letterhead and cryptic references to hush-money payouts, intimidation efforts and bribery of board members. That took her breath: This was the mother lode — the totality of her uncle’s manipulations, enough to take him down.
Her hands shook, her eyes skimming scrawled notes in Soren’s pen: half-coded references to corporate sabotage even details tying him to a rival company’s infiltration. Fresh terror washed across Talia when she comprehended the extent to which he’d gone to exert control over Caspian and anyone who fought back. With heart pounding, she slipped the papers into a well-used satchel. Did she have the nerve to confront him in person with these smoking guns or hand them over to Caspian and Celeste?
Footsteps resounded in the hall, and she froze. She strained to hear, mind spinning. The steps halted, then faded. With an exhale of relief, she closed the drawer and locked it again, slipping the key into the vase. She stuffed the satchel under her coat after giving the desk’s surface one last look. She was short on time; her next move needed to be quick and determined.
Sneaking out of the study, she crossed the mansion’s hallways with a drumming heart. Outdoors, the cool night air caressed her face, creating a moment of focus. She took out her phone and booked a clandestine meeting with Celeste, mind racing over what to disclose and the best way to use these incriminating files. They could finally put an end to Soren’s reign, but they may also shatter the Hayes legacy to bits.
She ran to her car, unaware of silent eyes watching from shadows near the edge of the garden, a figure hidden behind the haze of daylilies. She never even noticed the shadow follow in her footsteps, ever silent and determined. If she had, she might have recognized this secret act was already tainted, and the precious evidence she now tightly held would have been more fragile than ever.