Chapter 133

Chapter 133
ARTHUR'S POV

I had barely shut the door of my study behind me when the weight of the day seemed to cave down on my shoulders. I should have been by Jordan’s side, waiting for more news, but something gnawed at me, a pull I couldn’t shake off. My desk looked just as I’d left it the night before, only now, when I began pulling out the files and envelopes stacked there, something felt… wrong.

The estate documents—every title deed, every seal I had carefully locked away—they weren’t complete. The main folder was there, the heavier files still tucked neatly, but the smaller envelopes, the addendums, and the older records that linked the entire estate’s chain of ownership—they were gone. I froze, staring at the empty space inside the drawer, as though staring long enough would will them back into existence.

My mind spun with questions. Had I misplaced them? No, impossible. I was meticulous. I always double-checked, always. No one else should have had access here. A prickling heat worked its way up the back of my neck.

I dropped to one knee, pulling open the lower drawers, rifling through correspondence, old letters, ledgers. Nothing. My movements became sharper, more desperate, as I pulled books from the shelves, checked behind them, even bent down to look beneath the desk. Nothing.

The creak of the door startled me. I straightened quickly, my hand still braced on the drawer handle. Aunt Nina stepped in, her usual calm presence filling the room. She looked at me, her brow lined not just with age but with the burden of too many recent nights.

“I heard what happened to Jordan,” she said softly, her voice carrying both concern and gravity. “I called Naya… I had to know. So, how is he?”

For a moment, I let go of the frantic searching, my chest heavy. “Still under treatment,” I answered. My voice came out lower than I intended, almost rough. “But the nurse said he’s out of immediate danger.”

Her shoulders eased a little, and she nodded, relief softening her expression. “Thank God,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.

I took in the sight of her, standing there with her hands folded in front of her, the very image of patience, and forced myself to ask, “And Elijah?”

“He’s sleeping,” she replied with a small smile, though I could see the worry tucked beneath her composure. “The poor child was exhausted.”

I nodded, my fingers drumming lightly against the desk’s edge before I turned back to the open drawer, my mind tugging me back to the void where the missing documents should have been. Aunt Nina’s eyes followed my movements, sharp and knowing.

“What are you searching for in such a hurry?” she asked gently. There wasn’t judgment in her voice, only quiet curiosity, but it struck something inside me all the same.

I hesitated. The air in the study suddenly felt smaller, heavier, as if confessing my suspicion might make it all too real. The words clung to the back of my throat as I debated whether to tell her what was missing.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, the weight of frustration pressing down on my chest as I admitted to Aunt Nina what I’d only just pieced together. “I just realized some of the estate documents are missing,” I told her, my voice sharper than I intended. I went on, explaining in detail why they mattered, why every page and signature was crucial, not just for the family’s stability but to prevent anyone from using the gaps against us. The words poured out in a rush because I was still reeling from the discovery—how could something so important just vanish from under my nose?

Aunt Nina listened without interrupting, her brows knitting as she absorbed my explanation. She didn’t dismiss it or downplay it, which was almost a relief. Instead, she placed a hand gently on the edge of my desk and said in her steady way, “Give me a moment.” Then she turned and left my study, her footsteps retreating down the hall.

The room felt strangely quiet after she was gone, as though her presence had been keeping me anchored, and now I was left to drift in my own thoughts. I pushed back from the desk and began combing through the piles again, flipping open files, checking folders I was certain I’d gone through already. The smell of paper and dust hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of wood polish that clung to the shelves.

I pulled open the bottom drawer where I usually kept the older deeds, my fingers brushing over yellowing edges, but nothing was out of place there. I stood, moved to the cabinet near the window, and tugged out more files, scanning through them quickly, my eyes catching on legal jargon and signatures but not the ones I was looking for. Each time I came up empty, a knot of unease tightened further in my stomach.

The missing documents weren’t just paper; they were leverage, protection, proof of what belonged to us. Without them, we were vulnerable, and I hated that feeling. My mind kept circling back to the timing—Jordan’s collapse, the tension building with Victor Cain, Stella’s fear—it all made me wonder if the disappearance was truly an accident or if someone had intended for me to notice at the worst possible moment.

I pressed my palm against the desk, steadying myself, and forced a slow breath through my lungs. The study, usually my place of order and clarity, now felt like a maze with shadows in every corner. I bent down again, checking even the narrow gaps behind the stacks of books on the lower shelves, but still, nothing.

As the minutes ticked by, the silence in the room grew heavier, the steady tick of the clock on the wall feeling louder than usual. I rubbed the back of my neck, my mind replaying the last time I had seen the documents intact. I knew I’d had them. I knew they were here. And now, with Aunt Nina searching elsewhere, I was left with my own restless determination to keep looking until I uncovered where they had gone.

Because one thing was certain: if someone had taken them, it wasn’t just a missing file anymore—it was a deliberate move in a larger game I had yet to fully see.

When Aunt Nina returned, I could hear her footsteps before she even appeared in the doorway. There was a certain weight to the way she walked, measured and deliberate, as though she carried something more than just the files in her hands. I straightened in my chair, brushing the dust of my earlier frantic search from my palms, and my eyes immediately fell on the bundle she clutched to her chest.

She stepped inside quietly, her gaze lingering on me for a second longer than usual, and then she extended the files toward me. “Arthur,” she said softly, her voice low in that way she used when words carried more meaning than their surface allowed. “This is what your mother, Isabelle, gave me. She asked me to hand it to you… not then, but now. I don’t know if this contains what you’re searching for, but I believe it’s time you had it.”

I blinked at her, caught between confusion and an unexpected surge of hope. My mother’s name carried a strange gravity in my chest, stirring old, tangled emotions. I reached forward, my fingers brushing hers briefly as I took the bundle. It felt heavier than I expected, not just in weight but in the air around it, as though the papers themselves were alive with answers I wasn’t yet ready to see.

“Thank you, Aunt Nina,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. Gratitude was all I could offer in that moment, though inside my mind raced with a thousand questions—why hadn’t Mother given this to me herself? Why had it been hidden until now? And, most importantly, what exactly was inside that she believed I needed now of all times?

Nina gave me a small, almost wistful smile. “I don’t know what’s in there, Arthur. I only know that she was insistent it reach you. I trust you’ll know what to do with it when you’re ready.”

Her words, layered and careful, sank into me. I opened my mouth, ready to press her for more, but something in her expression—a quiet firmness, a kind of unspoken line—told me she had already said all she intended. With a light touch to my shoulder, she excused herself from the study, leaving me alone once again, the echo of the closing door sounding like a mark in time.

For a long moment, I simply sat there with the files resting across my lap. My study, once a place of order and precision, now looked like a battlefield of papers and overturned drawers. Yet, at the center of the chaos, I held this one bundle, intact, preserved, and—by the look of it—untouched for quite some time.

I traced the edge of the string tied around it, my fingers trembling just slightly. Part of me wanted to rip it open immediately, devour every word inside, and find the missing pieces I had been searching for. But another part of me hesitated. This wasn’t just paper—this was my mother’s voice reaching me from the past, and I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for what she might reveal.

Still, the urgency of the estate matters pressed hard against the hesitation. Missing documents meant unfinished work, and unfinished work meant risks—risks that I couldn’t afford right now. Whatever was inside these files, they had come to me at a time when I needed clarity more than ever.

I drew a steadying breath, setting the bundle carefully on the desk before me. The lamplight flickered across the surface, shadows dancing as though urging me forward. I leaned back in my chair for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts, my eyes fixed on the bundle as if it might open on its own.

Mother, I thought, if you left this for me… you must have known what I’d face.

The room felt strangely still after Nina’s departure, as though the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for me to act. And I knew, deep down, that whatever was contained within those files was not only about the estate—it was about far more. Something she had wanted me to know. Something she had trusted I would need, even if I didn’t yet understand why.

And as that realization settled in me , I placed both hands on the bundle and prepared myself to untie it.