Chapter Eight
The letter was gone.
I knew the moment I opened the drawer and saw nothing but bare wood.
My heart dropped.
I'd locked the bedroom door last night. I'd tucked the envelope beneath my sweaters. And yet—when I reached for it this morning, ready to confront Damien in my own time—there was only a space, cold and mocking.
Someone had been in my room.
Someone knew.
The floor creaked behind me.
I spun around, every muscle tense. But it was just Maria, one of the quiet housemaids, already retreating with her head down. I barely registered her murmured apology before I turned back to the drawer.
No signs of a struggle. No misplaced items. Nothing except the ringing alarm bells in my chest.
Who the hell had taken it?
Downstairs, breakfast was already laid out. But I didn't have an appetite. Not when Damien sat at the head of the table with his jaw tight, his hands wrapped around a glass of dark coffee like he wanted to crush it.
Vincent stood behind him, silent as a shadow.
The air was… wrong.
I knew it before I sat down.
"I need to ask you something," Damien said without preamble.
I looked at him, trying to mask the pounding in my chest.
"What is it?"
His eyes locked onto mine.
"Did you take anything from my study last night?"
I held his gaze. "Why would I?"
"No games, Selene."
I swallowed. My voice was steady, but my pulse was anything but.
"I found a letter. It was hidden behind the fireplace. Addressed to you."
His face didn't change.
"I wanted to ask you about it. But this morning… it was gone."
He didn't blink.
"Gone?"
I nodded once.
"I didn't take it," I said, slowly, deliberately. "But someone did."
For a long time, Damien didn't speak. Then he stood and turned to Vincent.
"Get the cameras."
My stomach lurched. Cameras?
Vincent nodded and disappeared down the hallway.
"What cameras?" I asked carefully.
"Discreet ones," Damien replied. "In the hallways. Near the bedrooms."
My mind raced. If someone had entered my room in the middle of the night, there'd be proof.
But the proof for who?
And then—before I could ask—there was a sharp knock at the front door.
Three times.
Measured. Intentional.
Damien's expression darkened instantly.
Vincent returned from the hall, tablet in hand. But Damien didn't even glance at it. His attention was already fixed on the entrance.
He knew who it was.
So did I, the moment the butler opened the door.
Two officers. One man in a long black coat holding a leather folder.
"Mr. Vale?" the man asked smoothly.
Damien nodded once.
"I'm Detective Colin Marsden. We're reopening the investigation into the disappearance of Elara Sloane."
The room fell into stillness so profound I could hear the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Vincent stepped forward instinctively, but Damien raised a hand to stop him.
"What grounds?" Damien asked, his voice cool.
The detective smiled faintly.
"New evidence has surfaced. A letter. Written by Miss Sloane. Found in your home."
My entire body went cold.
How?
How did they already have it?
The detective opened his folder and pulled out a clear plastic sleeve.
Inside—the letter.
Damien didn't even flinch. But I saw the twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers curled slightly as he read the first few lines.
"May we come in?" the detective asked.
"You have a warrant?"
"I have a subpoena."
Vincent took the paper with narrowed eyes, skimmed it, and gave Damien the smallest nod.
"Fine," Damien said. "But make it fast."
I stayed quiet as the officers walked through the study, the lounge, and finally, Damien's private wing. One of them lingered near the fireplace where I'd found the tin box. But there was nothing left there now. No letters. No ribbon. Nothing that could tell the truth—or rewrite it.
When they were gone, Damien returned to the dining room and poured himself a drink. Not coffee this time—whiskey. At nine in the morning.
"Someone's playing games," he said, low.
I didn't speak.
He turned to me, slowly.
"You said you didn't take it. But no one else knew about that letter—except you."
"You think I leaked it?"
His silence was louder than any accusation.
"I wouldn't do that," I said firmly. "Not to you."
"But someone did," he said. "And you're the only variable."
Something cracked inside me.
"You mean the only one who isn't already bought, groomed, or afraid of you?"
His eyes sharpened.
"You're saying someone else in this house did it?"
I met his gaze. "Ava."
The name landed like a slap between us.
Damien exhaled through his nose. "Why would she?"
"Because she hates me. And she still loves you."
Damien took a long drink, and his silence stretched.
Or maybe he knew I was right.
Later that night, I slipped into the west wing.
The part of the house no one talked about.
The part that belonged to Elara once.
Her old bedroom was locked.
Of course, it was.
But I'd learned something from Damien in the past few days—every lock has a weakness.
And mine was desperation.
I bent a hairpin from my braid and jimmied the lock, breathing slow, steady, until I heard the soft click of surrender.
The door creaked open.
And I stepped inside.
The room was exactly what I didn't expect.
Not elegant.
Not soft.
But cold.
Sterile.
White walls. Minimal furniture. A glass desk. A shelf of journals.
And on the far wall—photos.
Not of Damien.
Of her.
Elara. At a beach. At a gala. Holding a champagne glass, face unreadable.
In every photo, she looked… alone.
I crossed the room and scanned the shelves. The journals were mostly empty—except one.
The last entry made my blood chill.
"He knows.
I saw it in his eyes tonight. He found the ultrasound photo I hid behind the mirror. He didn't say anything, but the way he looked at me—like he'd already decided what I was worth.
I'm scared. Not of what he'll do to me. But of what I'll let him do if he asks.
I keep hoping the man I fell in love with is still in there. But maybe he never was. Maybe I just wanted him to be.
If I disappear, I want the world to know: that I didn't run. I was erased."
I barely had time to close the journal before I heard footsteps approaching.
Not heavy like Damien's.
Not clipped like Vincent's.
Slower.
Measured.
I ducked behind the desk just as the door opened.
And someone stepped inside.
My heart stopped.
I couldn't see the face—only dark boots, long legs, the hem of a black coat.
Then… a voice.
Low. Controlled.
Ava.
"You were always such a little liar," she said softly. "I should've burned those journals the moment you vanished."
She walked toward the shelf, pulling one out. Then another. Skimming. Searching.
She paused.
Turned.
And I saw her hand slide into her pocket—and come back with a silver lighter.
My chest locked.
No.
Not the journals.
Not the truth.
I stood up.
She froze.
Her eyes widened, just for a second.
Then narrowed.
"Well," she said, smile tight. "You've been busy."
Cliffhanger:
Ava traps Selene inside Elara's room, threatens to burn everything, and drops a chilling hint: "I was there the night she disappeared. And so was Damien." As the fire sparks and secrets go up in smoke, Selene must choose—stay quiet and survive… or risk everything to uncover the truth.