blood and paper

Chapter 7: Blood and Paper

Vivienne Quinn's house smelled like fading perfume and strategic neglect.

Elara hadn't been back in months. Maybe longer. The once-grand townhouse had slipped into quiet decay—curtains closed too long, polished surfaces dulling under invisible dust. Her mother's taste hadn't changed. Still ivory and wine-red, still money trying to look like class.

Vivienne met her at the door with a faint smile and a flute of something that looked like champagne but probably wasn't.

"Come to accuse me of more things I can't prove?" she asked without preamble.

Elara didn't flinch. "No. I came to look through Celine's things."

Vivienne sipped. "You're too late. I donated most of it."

"Then you kept what mattered."

A beat. Then Vivienne turned and walked down the hallway, gesturing idly. "Her bedroom's untouched. I couldn't bring myself to box it."

That surprised her.

Not that the room remained.

But that her mother admitted to feeling something about it.

Elara climbed the stairs without another word. She opened the door.

The air inside was different. Still. Preserved. Her sister's signature scent—something floral, faintly citrus—lingered in the silk pillows, in the edge of the curtains. The vanity was still cluttered. Jewelry boxes open. Lipsticks half-capped.

She didn't know what she was looking for until she found it.

A thin leather journal, wedged beneath the bottom drawer of the vanity.

She pulled it free.

The cover was cracked. The elastic band had worn out. And inside—

—pages had been torn.

Not ripped. Removed.

Surgically.

What remained was just fragments.

"—he said no one would believe me. But that's not the point—" "—can't tell Elara. She thinks I'm stronger than I am—" "—they want silence. But silence is just blood without the scream."

Elara sat on the edge of the bed, heart thudding.

This wasn't fame.

This wasn't drama.

This was fear.

Real.

Raw.

And deliberate.

She flipped to the last page—one that hadn't been removed.

It said only:

"If this ends badly, tell Alec he was wrong."

The invitation wasn't really an invitation.

It was an itinerary.

Delivered by courier. Cream paper. No wax seal this time—just a crisp heading that said:

BLACKTHORN HOLDINGS — Executive Operations Briefing Location: Tower 17, Conference Level Date: Friday Time: 9:00 a.m. Accompanying Attendee: Mrs. Elara Blackthorn

She read it twice.

Then circled the word "accompanying" with a pen so dark it almost tore the page.

When Caelum appeared in the doorway of the kitchen that morning, tie already fastened, sleeves cuffed with gold, she didn't even bother with a greeting.

"You want me there to prove something," she said flatly.

"I want you there because they'll ask questions if you're not."

"So I'm your silent prop?"

"You're my wife," he said. "And they need reminding."

"Then I'll speak."

His eyes narrowed—just slightly. "That wasn't part of the agreement."

"Neither was staged affection in public," she replied, stepping past him. "But you're very good at improvising."

The conference room was carved from steel and money.

Twenty-two seats. One wall of screens. One wall of glass. Half a dozen men and women in suits that screamed pedigree and threat. Alec sat at the far end, legs crossed, a fountain pen rolling idly between his fingers.

Elara took her place beside Caelum.

No introductions. No smiles.

Caelum opened the meeting with numbers.

She listened for names.

He spoke of mergers, litigation, power plays in language so polished it bordered on seduction.

She watched Alec.

He rarely looked at Caelum. Never at her.

Until halfway through the meeting, when she leaned over and whispered something inaudible into Caelum's ear.

That's when Alec looked up.

A flicker.

Almost nothing.

But enough.

After the meeting, she waited in the hallway outside the boardroom. Caelum left first, surrounded by executives.

Alec lingered.

She stepped into his path.

"You were close with Celine," she said, her voice even.

He tilted his head. "I was close with a lot of beautiful people."

"She mentioned you. By name."

"Then I hope she said something flattering."

"She said to tell you," Elara murmured, "you were wrong."

Alec froze.

Just for a breath.

Then he smiled.

But it was the kind of smile someone wears when they've been cut exactly where they didn't expect.

"Elara," he said, voice lower now. "If you start digging in the wrong places, you'll get more than dirt under your nails."

She didn't blink.

"I'll risk the mess."

It was waiting on her pillow.

She hadn't left her room that morning. No maid had entered. No staff existed in this house that she could see—only invisible hands, coded locks, and Caelum's omnipresent control.

Still, the note was there.

Plain white envelope.

Same sharp handwriting.

But this time, the ink was red.

She opened it.

No greeting. No sign-off.

Just four lines:

"She knew what she was walking into. She thought she could control it. She told one person everything. And now that person is lying."

Elara read it three times.

She folded it in half, then opened it again.

The way the ink bled slightly suggested it had been written with a fountain pen—quickly, angrily. The letters weren't Caelum's.

They weren't Alec's, either.

She didn't know how she knew that—she just did.

Which meant someone else was in this.

Watching. Listening.

Leaving breadcrumbs.

She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes for a moment.

The danger was shifting.

It wasn't just Caelum anymore. Or Alec. Or her sister's disappearance into something she couldn't name.

It was bigger.

And it was closer than she'd ever let herself imagine.

Vivienne didn't flinch when Elara appeared at her door again.

She opened it with a martini in one hand, silk robe cinched flawlessly, and that same bored socialite expression that always masked something sharper underneath.

"Back for round two?" she asked, already turning.

Elara followed her into the sitting room, where everything smelled faintly of roses and vintage betrayal.

"I found Celine's journal," Elara said. "You knew she was being threatened."

Vivienne raised one brow and settled into her chaise. "If I ran to panic every time one of you girls scribbled in a diary, I'd be on blood pressure medication and my third failed marriage."

"She was afraid, Mother."

"She was ambitious."

"She named Alec."

That name hit.

Vivienne's fingers twitched slightly against her glass.

But she recovered quickly.

"Celine was reckless," she said. "She thought secrets were currency. And she never learned how to spend them without overpaying."

Elara stared. "Are you even listening to yourself?"

"I warned her," Vivienne said coolly. "I told her Richard Blackthorn was dangerous. That his money had teeth. That no matter how charming he seemed in public—he only ever loved what he could control."

Elara's voice dropped. "Did you know they were together?"

Vivienne didn't answer right away.

Instead, she rose, crossed the room, and opened a drawer in the antique sideboard.

She pulled out a photograph. One Elara had never seen.

Celine.

Smiling.

Leaning against Richard Blackthorn's arm like they were a couple at a country club.

It was dated two months before the accident.

Vivienne handed it over.

"Your sister," she said softly, "thought she could rewrite the script. She didn't realize she'd been cast in a tragedy until it was too late."

Elara looked down at the photo.

Then up.

"Did you help cover it up?"

Vivienne's gaze didn't waver.

"I helped her survive longer than she would've on her own."

Elara stared at the photograph long after Vivienne disappeared into another room—probably to refill her drink, or to pretend this conversation hadn't happened.

Celine looked radiant in the image.

Confident. Carefree. Her smile was wide, effortless.

But now, Elara could see it.

The tension in her shoulders. The tilt of her hand, curled just slightly too tight around Richard Blackthorn's arm. The way her body leaned, but her eyes didn't match it.

She was posing.

Performing.

Not for the camera—but for survival.

Elara folded the photo carefully and slipped it into her coat.

Back in the hallway, she pulled out her sister's journal again. Flipped through the worn pages. The fragmented lines. The confessions torn in half.

There were dozens of mentions:

Alec. Vivienne. "R." "The foundation." Even a veiled reference to "the son."

But never once:

Caelum.

Not by name. Not even by implication.

And that was wrong.

If she'd been afraid of the father—if Richard had been a threat—then the absence of Caelum in her sister's writing wasn't innocent.

It was deliberate.

Because Celine didn't omit things unless they mattered.

Unless they were the sharpest knives.

Unless they were the ones she knew she'd never survive writing down.