chapter 12

Taped behind a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

With a breath, she slid the key into the lock. It clicked with quiet faintly.

Inside: yellow documents, contracts, and faded photographs. One had his signature beside the Lautner crest.

She scanned it. A transfer of shares. Her father had once been an investor in the Lautner family's textile division years before the scandal that destroyed his name. Another page showed early drafts of patent rights… his handwriting was clear and scrawled with notes. Her stomach turned.

He hadn't just known them. He'd worked with them.

Why didn't you tell me? she whispered.

The wind rattled the window panes. She sat back on her heels, cradling the documents. Her father had always spoken about the Lautners with disdain like they were parasites. But the truth was messier.

They had once been partners.

And maybe more.

The overhead light flickered. Her skin bristled with the sense of being watched, though the room was empty. She folded the papers, tucked them into her coat, and rose slowly.

If this got out, everything she thought she knew about her father, about Stephan Could collapse in a single breath.

She left the drawer open.

She wouldn't pretend anymore.

Outside, thunder growled, like a warning rolling over the hills.

She needed to see him.

But first… she had to face the man she buried.

And ask why he lied, even in death.

The cemetery lay quiet beneath a blanket of grey clouds, the marble headstones slick with rain. Paisley stood before her father's grave, arms crossed, the coat heavy with the stolen truth. Her boots sank into the soft ground, and her breath fogged in the chill.

I found the drawer, she murmured. You lied to me.

The silence pressed in, unbearable.

Was it pride? she asked, voice sharper now. Or guilt?

She bent down, brushing a leaf from the granite. The name Elias Wynne was carved deep, as if stone could make up for the wreckage he'd left behind.

Footsteps behind her. She turned.

Stephan.

His tailored coat billowed in the wind, wet hair plastered to his forehead, green eyes unreadable. Rain glazed his stubbled jaw, making him look less like the Lautner heir and more like a man who hadn't slept.

You shouldn't be here, she said.

I could say the same. His voice was quieter than she expected.

Did you follow me?

No.

She didn't believe him. He didn't explain.

They stood in silence. He stared at the grave. She stared at him.

You look like hell, she said finally.

I feel worse.

He didn't step closer. Didn't reach for her. But something in his expression softened, the lines around his mouth relaxing like a wall giving way.

I didn't fake it, he said, almost too low to hear. What we had… I wasn't pretending.

She looked away. It doesn't change anything.

Maybe not. But you needed to hear it.

Rain tapped against her coat, steady as her heartbeat. She didn't know if she wanted to cry or scream.

Why now? she asked.

Because I don't want to be the man who watches you walk away without saying it.

She turned, blinking hard.

And that's when she saw it.

A black car, parked just far enough which seem harmless.

Behind the tinted window, someone was watching.

Her heart kicked.

Don't look, but we're not alone.

Stephan shifted slightly, catching her tone. What is it?

Paisley kept her gaze steady on the gravestone. You didn't come alone.

I told you,

There's someone in that car, she whispered, inching closer to him. Passenger seat. Been sitting there since I got here.

He followed her cue, lifting his hand to brush rain from his brows disguise to glance. Black Audi?

She nodded.

That's Camden's car.

Your assistant?

More like my brother's watchdog.

Her stomach twisted. So, I was right.

He exhaled sharply. You're being followed. Dammit.

You brought him?

No. He's been tailing me all week.

Paisley's breath clouded in the air. Then he's not just watching me.

Apparently not.

She stepped back, trying to steady her thoughts. He knows about the documents.

No one should know you have them.

Someone does.

Stephan looked down at her. Water trailed down his temple, caught on the scar just above his eyebrow. His eyes were tired but still burning.

We need to get you out of here.

Why me?

Because if you have proof… they'll come for you before you can use it.

Her heart thudded. And what about you?

I'm already compromised.

He reached for her hand. She let him.

But the intimacy between them snapped the moment the car door opened across the cemetery. A man stepped out, tall, clean-shaven, sharp in a long black coat.

Camden.

His eyes met Paisley's across the field of graves.

She froze.

He knows, she whispered.

Stephan tugged her hand. Come on.

She didn't move.

The man lifted a phone to his ear.

And smiled.

Stephan cursed under his breath.

Paisley turned, fingers clutching the inside of her coat where the papers rustled like dry leaves.

This just got worse, she said.

They ran.

Behind them, the sound of footsteps followed slow, steady, deliberate.

Not chasing.

Waiting.