Chapter 131

Alina's POV

Adams's estate was a gilded cage. I had been locked in one of its bedrooms for three days.

The curtains were always drawn. Day and night had become indistinguishable, marked only by a dim wall lamp that burned around the clock and soaked the room in an unchanging amber haze.

The lock clicked twice each day on schedule—once in the morning, once in the evening. A servant would come in carrying a tray, set it on the low table by the door, and leave without raising their eyes or saying a word. The whole thing took less than a minute.

The food itself was elaborate—Adams had seen to that. Beef cut into careful pieces, garnishes arranged in the shape of flowers, soup still steaming, even the dessert formed into small heart-shaped cakes.

I had no interest in any of it.

On the first day, I had tried everything I could think of—hammering the door with my elbow, driving my foot into the lock, eventually smashing the wall lamp. The pieces scattered across the floor.

When Adams heard about it, he laughed softly twice and had me removed from the room while workers came in. By the time I was brought back, the new lamp was already fitted, the bed remade with fresh linen, every shard of glass gone from the floor. The room looked exactly as it had before, as though nothing had happened at all.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap, and stared at the blank wall across from me.

I hadn't left anything for Lowell when I walked out of the hospital. Not a note, not a message, nothing. Would he think I had left in anger?

It didn't matter. We were heading toward a separation anyway. If he didn't know I was in Adams's hands, that was probably safer for him—a kind of protection, even if not the kind I would have chosen. The only thing I truly regretted was that I might not get the chance to stay close enough to watch over him after all.

I was still staring at the wall when Adams came through the door.

"You look well," he said. He was carrying a glass of red wine and wearing the easy expression of someone in a good mood. "Better than I'd expected. The kitchen must be doing something right."

"I hope the knife in your back didn't miss anything vital," I said.

He shrugged, unbothered, watching me with a trace of amusement. "Of course not. I intend to keep myself in excellent health. I have plans for my prize, after all."

The words moved over my skin like something cold. I shifted away from him without meaning to.

He seemed not to need a response. He reached into his pocket at his own pace, took out a cigar case, drew one out, turned it between his fingers twice, and lit it.

The smoke rose slowly in the amber light from the lamp, curling through the air like a gray ribbon.

"Don't you want to know what your Lowell has been doing these past few days?" He held the cigar between his teeth, watching me with that particular look of his—idle, calculating. "I've heard some interesting things. Would you like to know?"

I pressed my nails into my palm.

I did want to know. Of course I did. But the smarter part of me knew that showing it would only give Adams something to use—that the more obviously I cared, the more likely he was to dangle Lowell in front of me to draw me out.

"You're overthinking it," I said, keeping my voice flat. "Lowell and I have nothing to do with each other anymore. You can tell me anything about him and I won't care."

"Is that so?" Adams smiled once and took out his phone. He opened the photo gallery, turned the screen toward me. "Then I have no reason to feel guilty about this at all."

"Take a look."

The first photograph had been taken from above, looking down into a dimly lit room. A person lay face-down on the floor. Beneath them, a wide dark stain had spread across the surface. One hand was bent outward at an angle that no living joint would allow, the knuckles twisted—broken, one by one, by the look of it.

The second photograph was from the same room. Another body, a similar pose, face covered with cloth, a single knife wound visible at the chest.

The third was a still frame from a security feed. The corridor in the image was one I recognized immediately—the hallway leading to the dungeon in the Vadalich family estate. Two people were being marched along it by a group of men.

When I realized who those two people were, my whole body went rigid.

"Who are these people?" I kept my voice controlled and looked directly at Adams, making him say it himself.

He exhaled slowly, taking his time. He didn't explain. He scrolled through the phone a few more times and turned the screen toward me again.

This time it was document photographs—images of files, the kind taken straight from an archive.

The first was a record of financial transfers. Over the previous two months, a series of payments had moved from an anonymous account into companies held under the Vadalich family name. The amounts were significant, each one in the six figures. In the reference field of every transaction was an address—one I knew without having to think about it. The street where my parents had lived. The building. The door number. The dates were from more than a decade ago.

I went still.

Before Adams could move again, I reached out and swiped to the next document myself.

It was a screenshot of an email. The sender was an investment company registered under the Vadalich family. The recipient was an address I didn't recognize.

The body of the email was a single line: Execute as planned. Ensure all traces point to the target.

"Your parents' deaths." Adams had moved closer while I was reading—close enough to almost encircle me, his lips near my ear, his voice unhurried and deliberately cruel. "All those years you spent looking. Did you ever stop to ask yourself why the trail always went cold right before you reached the center of it? Did you think that was bad luck? Or did someone make sure you never got close enough to find out?"

I raised my head and met his eyes. "Lowell's father killed my parents. And Lowell has been covering it up."

Adams studied me for a moment, something like approval in his expression. Then he pressed his lips to my cheek. "There it is. You're quick." His voice dropped. "But now ask yourself this—why do you think he brought you home from the auction? Was it love? Or was it because you're carrying a piece of the past that he cannot let anyone else find?"

"You're lying." My voice rose before I could stop it. I shoved him back. "Lowell isn't like that. He wouldn't do that—"

"Wouldn't he?" Adams smiled. "Then why has he never told you what he's actually doing? Why does he keep you away from everything that concerns the family? If he truly loved you, how could he leave you lying alone in that hospital for weeks without a single word of explanation?"

I opened my mouth. The sentence I reached for was he was only trying to protect me from getting hurt. It didn't come out.

Because out loud, even inside my own head, it sounded too much like a defense I was making on his behalf—and too much like a reason I couldn't actually convince myself of.

The truth was I didn't know what he was doing. He had cut me out of it. He had kept telling me to wait, and every time I asked, the answer was the same, like a door that was always closed no matter how many times you stood in front of it.

I looked down. My fingers were shaking slightly where they gripped the bed sheet.

"You're lying. Those documents are fabricated. You're trying to turn us against each other—"

Adams raised an eyebrow with a studied indifference. "Sweetheart. Think about where the two of you actually stand right now. Do I really need to do anything to turn you against each other?"

The words hit me before I was ready for them, and my whole body went tight.