Chapter 39 Missing Pieces

Chapter 39 Missing Pieces

Elena’s POV
I can’t stop staring at the empty box. Its metal edges glint beneath the low light, silent and accusing. The missing module—the final piece of Project Seraphim—is gone. The realization sits in my chest like ice. Whoever took it didn’t just steal technology; they stole the truth.
Damien stands beside me, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “We’ll find it,” he says. Calm. Too calm. Like a man forcing himself not to lose control.
I shake my head. “No, you don’t understand. That component completed the sequence—the integration. Without it, the rest of your father’s data means nothing. But with it—”
“I know exactly what it means.” His voice cuts through mine, low and tight. “Which is why I’m not going to let panic make us stupid.”
“Panic?” I repeat, incredulous. “Someone broke into your house, Damien. Someone who knew exactly what to take.”
His jaw flexes. “Then we’ll deal with it. But not by pointing fingers in the dark.”
I cross my arms, anger simmering beneath the fear. “Someone inside helped. No one else could have gotten in here. You said yourself there was no breach, no external access.”
He looks away, his silence confirming what he won’t say aloud.
“It’s someone close to you,” I press. “Someone with clearance.”
“Enough,” he snaps.
The word cracks like a whip. The tension between us spikes. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then his tone softens, almost imperceptibly. “Elena… I can’t start accusing my own people without proof.”
“You can’t afford not to,” I counter, voice steady. “Whoever took that module isn’t just after money. They’re trying to finish what your father started.”
He closes the distance between us in two steps, eyes dark and furious—but beneath the fury, I see something else. Fear. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every night wondering which ghost from his past is going to come for us next?”
The words leave me breathless. For a second, the anger drains out of both of us, leaving only exhaustion.
“I’m not your enemy, Damien,” I say quietly. “I want to help.”
He studies me for a long moment, the fight leaving his shoulders. “Then stay close,” he says. “I’ll handle the rest.”
But I’ve learned better than to trust his idea of “handling.” When Damien says he’ll take care of something, it usually means burying it where no one can dig it up again.
That night, while he locks himself in his study, I slip out of bed and head toward the security wing. The mansion is silent, the air cold against my skin. My pulse beats in my ears as I pass the rows of cameras, each feed flickering faintly across the monitors.
Adrian is on duty, half-asleep in front of the screens. “Miss Elena?” he says, startled.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I lie, giving him a small smile. “Just wanted some tea.”
He nods, distracted, turning back to the monitors. I take that moment to glance over his shoulder—and spot the log database flashing faintly on the side screen.
“Adrian,” I say, feigning casual curiosity. “Are those the guest logs?”
“Uh, yeah,” he replies. “Routine archive. Why?”
“Just wondering.” I lean a bit closer, pretending to look at another feed. “How far back do they go?”
“All entries for the last thirty days are stored locally.”
Perfect. “Could you print the last week for me? Damien asked me to check something earlier, but he must’ve forgotten.”
Adrian hesitates, then shrugs. “Sure.” He taps a few keys, the printer whirs to life, and within seconds, a stack of neatly printed entries lands on the tray.
“Thanks,” I say, offering a grateful smile before turning away.
Back in the guest room, I spread the papers across the bed. The logs are clean—mostly. Household staff, deliveries, Damien’s meetings. But on the night before we found the missing module, there’s an entry that doesn’t fit.
A visitor ID. No name attached. Logged at 2:13 a.m. Duration: twenty-seven minutes. No exit recorded.
My stomach tightens. Whoever came in never left through the main gates.
I cross-check the date and time with the internal footage, but one of the feeds cuts out during that same window—camera C-12, lower wing corridor. “Of course,” I mutter. Conveniently offline.
There’s no mistake. Someone erased their own tracks.
The next morning, I try to bring it up carefully. Damien is in the study, bent over files, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Damien,” I begin, sliding the papers toward him. “Do you recognize this entry?”
He glances at the timestamp, then at me. “Where did you get that?”
“From the security logs.”
His jaw hardens. “You went through my systems?”
“Your systems,” I echo sharply. “They’re supposed to protect us, aren’t they? Whoever this was walked right through your house. They took the module. And your security didn’t even notice.”
“Because there’s nothing there,” he says tightly. “Probably a clerical error. Adrian would’ve caught it if it were real.”
“You really believe that?”
He looks away. “I believe in my people.”
“Even when one of them might be betraying you?”
His eyes snap back to mine. “Not family.”
I pause, studying him. “So if it was someone in your family—what then?”
“Then I’d still handle it my way,” he says after a beat. “Not yours.”
That’s the problem. His “way” means silence. Containment. Denial.
I decide not to push further. Instead, I tuck the logs back into my bag. “Fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “You handle it your way.”
But that night, when he’s out of sight, I go back to digging.
I start with the financial records tied to the project—old ledgers, contract dates, company spending patterns. I’m looking for any sudden withdrawal or transaction around the time of the breach. After hours of combing through encrypted entries, I find one: an anonymous payment routed through a private shell company.
Amount: $450,000.
Recipient: “C. L.”
I frown. The initials mean nothing—until I trace the routing number to its origin and see the signature at the bottom of the authorization form.
Clara Cade.
Damien’s sister.
For a long moment, I just stare at the name. The woman who barely visits, who smiles with perfect composure and always leaves before dessert. The one who never gets her hands dirty, yet somehow knows everything that happens in this family.
The last person Damien would ever suspect.
I sit back, the air in the room suddenly too thin. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe the payment was something else entirely. But my gut tells me it’s not.
I need proof.
The next morning, I drive into the city alone, using the pretense of running errands. At the Cade Industries archives, I request transaction receipts tied to Clara’s account. The clerk, a thin man with nervous eyes, hesitates. “I’m not sure I’m authorized—”
I slide a folded note across the counter. “You are now.”
Money does what fear can’t. Within minutes, I’m holding a sealed envelope. Inside, a printed receipt—timestamped three nights ago.
A private meeting at The Regent Hotel. Payment approved and confirmed. The signature matches Clara’s perfectly.
My hands tremble as I lower the paper. The name listed beneath hers makes my stomach drop.
Marlowe. Damien’s most trusted board member.
It’s all connected.
Clara met with Marlowe days before the module vanished.
I fold the receipt carefully, tucking it into my jacket. My heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the sound of traffic outside.
As I step out of the building, a chill runs through me—the sense of being watched. I glance around, but the street looks normal. Too normal.
When I slide into my car, I take one last look at the receipt before locking it in the glove compartment.
Clara Cade. Damien’s own sister.
If I tell him, it’ll destroy him.
If I don’t, it might destroy us both.
And for the first time since stepping into his world, I don’t know which would be worse.