Liam stood at the window of his private room, watching the shadows of the trees move across the curtains. His suit jacket hung over the back of a chair from the night before, and his phone was pressed to his ear.

“Tell me more about this incident we had while I was gone.”

Victor’s voice came through the speaker, clipped and professional. “Someone accessed the security archive. They were in there physically. It wasn’t done through the system.”

Liam’s jaw tightened. “Physically?”

“Yes, sir. The archive registered a drive removal, but the access records for that period were deleted. When I went to pull the footage from the night of the storm, I found the drive missing. The physical evidence is the only reason I know someone was actually in the room.”

“An entire drive?”

“Yes. It contains several hours of archived security footage from around the estate. Cameras covering the main floors, service corridors, exterior grounds, garage, and the lower-level entrances. The storm and the blackout fall inside that window.”

Liam was silent for a moment. “How much footage?”

“Several hours. The archive index gives me the general range. I’m still reconstructing the exact start and end times, but the drugging incident falls somewhere in the middle of it.”

“And the access records?”

“The system still registered the drive being removed, but the access history for that period was deleted before the drive was taken.”

“The backup system?”

“It was offline before the deletion. Whoever did this knew where the failover was and took it offline cleanly.”

Liam’s expression hardened. “So they didn't just want the footage gone. They wanted to erase any record that they'd been inside.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

Liam paced slowly across the hardwood floor. “That doesn't look like a random thief, Victor. Whoever did this knew how we operate.”

“Which is why I think this came from inside.”

Liam stopped near the foot of the bed, his gaze settling on nothing in particular as he considered the implications. “Who had access to the archive room during the storm?”

“That’s the problem. The list is long. Cleaning staff have access to the areas outside the servers. Delivery teams came and went before the roads closed. Security rotations changed during the blackout. Physically, a lot of people could have gotten close.”

“But getting inside the archive?”

“That's different. The person who did this knew what they were looking for.”

“So we have a blind spot,” Liam said. “And someone knew how to use it.”

“What else did they take?” His voice remained flat. “The delivery logs? Inventory records? Anything else that was accessed?”

Victor was silent for a moment. “I ran the full sweep this morning. Door sensors, cabinet locks, every login timestamp from the past forty-eight hours. Nothing else was breached. The archives are the only thing that was accessed.”

“So they came for that specifically.” Liam turned the thought over for a moment. “If nothing else was touched, then the missing footage wasn't incidental. Whoever entered the archive had a reason to be there.” Liam paused. “What exactly was on that footage?”

“Standard camera feeds. The security hut, the service stairwell, the delivery entrance near the archive. Nothing that would obviously single anyone out unless they were somewhere they weren't supposed to be.”

Liam’s mind returned to the layout of the lower level. The security hut, the service stairwell, the delivery entrance, the corridor leading toward the archive. All of them had been busy during the storm. Anyone moving through the lower level could have used the chaos as cover.

He let the silence stretch. Victor knew better than to fill it.

“I want you to work with Presley on this,” Liam said finally. “Quietly. No announcements. No lockdowns that tip our hand. He knows this manor better than anyone.”

“You want to smoke them out?”

“I want to set a trap. If they still have access to the house, they'll have to believe nothing has changed. If they were looking for something specific, they may not know whether they got everything. I want them to believe we haven't discovered the breach. If they come back to verify what they took, we'll know.”

“You want me to leave a door open.”

“I want you to leave one that looks open. Monitor it. Control it. When they walk through, you'll know.”

Victor was quiet for a moment. “I can do that.”

“Pull Presley in. He notices things a security team might overlook. A chair moved, a drawer left open, something out of place.”

“Presley's good at that.”

“He is. Use it.”

Liam walked back to the window. The water glittered below, indifferent to the breach in his home. Somewhere out there, someone thought they'd gotten away with it. Thought they'd erased their tracks. Thought Liam Thorn was too distracted by the gala and the woman on his arm to notice.

They were wrong.

Liam exhaled slowly. “If someone can walk through my house without being seen, then this house isn't secure.”

Victor didn't answer.

“I'm taking Elena away for a few days.”

Victor didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was cautious. “Away from the manor?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, with respect—if there's someone inside the house, leaving might not be—”

“I'm not leaving because I'm running,” Liam cut in. “I'm leaving because I need her somewhere safe while you clean this up. The manor is compromised. I don't know how badly. Until I do, I'm not keeping her under a roof where someone erased evidence of their own movements.”

“She’s not involved in this.”

“She was drugged once because someone got inside my house. I'm not giving them another chance.”

Another pause. Victor was weighing his words. “Does she know about any of this?”

“No.” Liam's voice was flat. “And she won't. Not until I know who I'm dealing with.”

“Sir—”

“I'm aware of the risks, Victor. If the person who hit the archive decides to escalate, I don't want her in the building or anywhere near it."

Victor let out a slow breath. “Where are you taking her?”

“Somewhere off the grid. Somewhere no one will think to look.” Liam turned from the window, the rain streaking the glass behind him. “I want the Briar Rose ready to depart by dawn in two days. Fully fueled and stocked for a week.”

Victor hesitated. “The Briar Rose. That's been moored at the family docks for six months, sir. It will need to be checked over before—”

“Then start now. I want it ready by tomorrow afternoon. Nonperishables only. Medical kit. The standard supplies and nothing that signals where we're going. I don't want anyone looking at the provisions to know the destination.”

“And you?”

“I’ll handle my own bag. Just make sure the boat is ready, the engines are running properly, and the approach is clear. If anyone’s watching the manor, I want them to see me leave. They just can’t know where I’m going.”

“I'll inform Presley and have it prepped by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Do it. Quietly. They can know I’m leaving. They don’t need to know where I’m going.”

“Understood.”

Liam's thumb found the edge of his phone, tracing it absently. “You and Presley run things while I'm gone. The trap, the investigation. I want updates twice a day through the secure channel.”

Victor gave a quiet nod. “Morning and evening?”

“Exactly. If something changes, contact me immediately. Otherwise, keep the channel quiet.”

“You'll have them.”

Liam was silent for a moment before adding, “And Victor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don't let anyone know where I'm going until we're already on the water. Not the staff. Not the other lieutenants. No one.”

A brief silence followed.

“Understood.”

Liam ended the call and set the phone down on the desk. The screen went dark as the first light of morning filtered through the windows. He stood there for a long moment, staring at his own reflection in the glass.

Liam rested both hands against the edge of his desk, his thoughts already moving beyond the conversation. The investigation would continue without him. It had to. Thorn Holdings had never been built to rely on one man standing in one place.

Victor would oversee security, the trap, and the search for whoever had breached the archive. Roman would keep commerce moving. Gideon would handle the docks, warehouses, and infrastructure. Elias would keep the medical operations running. Raphael would deal with the questions that might come from the other families, government officials, or anyone else with enough influence to demand answers.

Liam had chosen each of them because they excelled in his assigned domain. They understood the boundaries of their authority and, more importantly, they understood when a matter belonged on Liam’s desk instead of their own.

His absence would be noticed, but the organization would not stop because he was gone.

His authority would be questioned by none.

No one else would know where he was going. Not Presley. Not the staff. Not the other lieutenants. The fewer people who knew about the destination, the fewer opportunities there were for whoever was inside Thorn Holdings to learn his movements.

Now he had to figure out his main problem.

Someone had been inside his house. Someone had moved through his security without being stopped, erased several hours of his past, and left him with no idea why.

Liam had spent years ensuring no one knew where to hurt him. His businesses, his security, his reputation—every piece of his life had been carefully constructed to eliminate vulnerabilities before they could be exploited. It was a discipline ingrained over decades, one that had kept him as the last of the Thorn family alive.

He thought about the photograph Presley had shown him. The one from the gala. The way she'd looked at the camera, half-startled, half-defiant. The way his hand had rested on her back, proprietary and protective. The headline: Thorn Heir Spotted with Mystery Woman at Charity Gala.

Elena had never asked to be part of his world. The contract, the scrutiny, the dangers attached to the Thorn name—none of it had been hers to choose. Yet somewhere between the negotiations, the gala, and the chaos of the last few days, she'd become more than a responsibility. That realization came with an uncomfortable truth: if someone had breached his home, then keeping her at the manor was no longer protection. It was a risk.

He picked up the phone again, scrolled to Presley's contact, and typed a short message:

Liam Thorn: Victor will brief you. We're setting a trap. I'll be gone a few days. Maintain normal operations. Don't tip the staff.

He hit send before he could second-guess the phrasing.

Then he turned from the window, crossed the room, and opened the door to the hallway.

He pulled the door closed behind him and turned left, away from the main hallway and toward the servants’ wing. The carpet gave way to hardwood beneath his feet as the walls narrowed around him.

He took the stairs at the back of the wing, descending toward the garage that occupied most of the manor’s basement. Multiple cars were parked inside, all of them ignored as he crossed toward the far end of the room.

He passed the small gym setup near the door he needed. A weight rack stood beside a heavy bag suspended from a reinforced beam, while a rowing machine rested folded against the wall.

He keyed the code. The lock clicked. The door swung open onto a narrow staircase, concrete steps descending into low light.

The steel door sealed shut behind him with a muted thud, cutting off the distant sounds of the manor above. The quiet that followed felt heavier than the silence of the halls outside, as though the room itself had been designed to keep secrets rather than store them.

The archive room greeted Liam with a controlled, artificial stillness. It was not complete silence. A faint mechanical hum lingered beneath the floor, produced by the cooling systems hidden somewhere behind the walls. Every so often, one of the servers would awaken with a soft rhythmic click before settling back into its endless cycle. Rows of server racks stretched across the length of the room, each one enclosed behind smoked glass and illuminated by tiny green and amber lights that blinked with mechanical precision.

The air carried the familiar scent of electronics, dust, and recycled cold air. It reminded Liam less of an archive and more of a bank vault.

In many ways, that was exactly what it was. Everything Thorn Holdings considered valuable eventually found its way here: security recordings, private communications, delivery manifests, financial records, surveillance logs—years of information carefully organized and locked away behind layers of protection. It was the memory of the organization, a place where every decision, every mistake, and every secret could be preserved—years of insurance against the day someone might need to know what had happened and why.

Liam walked slowly between the rows of equipment, his polished shoes making barely a sound against the sealed concrete floor. His eyes moved over every detail as he passed, taking in the room from one end to the other. At first glance, everything appeared untouched. There were no open drawers, no misplaced storage containers, no damaged equipment, and no signs of forced entry.

Whoever had entered this room had not come searching. They had known exactly what they wanted.

That realization bothered him more than the missing data itself. He stopped in front of one particular server rack, his attention drawn to a space near the center. One drive bay sat vacant while every surrounding compartment remained perfectly aligned. The missing drive had been removed cleanly, without disturbing anything around it.

Liam reached out and ran two fingers lightly along the edge of the opening. There were no scratches, no chipped paint, and no sign of a damaged locking mechanism. Whoever had removed it hadn't forced the drive loose. They had known exactly how to release it and had taken their time doing so.

His gaze lowered to the small label beneath the empty slot.

Row 4, Column 7.

The archive index beside it identified the missing drive as a continuous block of estate surveillance covering several hours around the night of the storm.

Victor had been right.

They had taken the entire drive, not a few minutes of footage. Several hours of surveillance had disappeared with it, including the period surrounding the night of the storm.

Liam stared at his reflection in the smoked glass surrounding the rack. Whoever had taken the drive had not acted out of desperation. They had made a choice, deciding that those hours were worth the risk of entering one of the most secure rooms in Thorn Holdings.

The question was why.

He stepped back and let his eyes sweep the room again. Something about it bothered him. It was too clean. Security rooms were never this perfect. Even the most carefully maintained systems showed evidence of constant use—fingerprints on glass, slight shifts in equipment, dust disturbed around areas that were accessed regularly.

It was too clean. Not untouched—cleaned. Every surface that should have carried some evidence of use had been wiped down.

His attention shifted to the backup server against the far wall. Unlike the primary archive racks, the system was rarely accessed. It existed for one purpose: preserving information that could not be lost. Liam crouched beside it and studied the front panel. At first glance, everything appeared untouched, but first glances were often where people made mistakes.

He ran his fingertip along the seam and immediately felt the difference. A thin, clean line interrupted the faint layer of dust surrounding it. Someone had opened the panel recently. He released the latch, and it swung outward with a quiet click.

Inside, every cable appeared to sit exactly where it belonged. Liam studied the connections for several moments before reaching forward. The placement looked natural, but the dust told a different story. A faint impression remained where one of the cables had previously rested, no longer matching its current position.

Someone had disconnected the data cable, accessed the system, and then put everything back exactly where it had been. Almost exactly. No obvious damage. No careless mistake. Just a single disturbance buried beneath an otherwise untouched surface.

Liam closed the panel slowly and stood, folding his arms across his chest as he looked over the rows of blinking lights. Thousands of hours of recordings. Years of history. Every movement around the estate documented and preserved.

And several hours were gone.

Not the archive. Not the entire system. One specific block of time, contained on one specific drive.

His gaze shifted toward the darker corner of the room, toward the hallway outside where a security camera should have been monitoring the entrance. If someone had gone to this much trouble to remove an entire drive, Liam needed to know whether the camera itself had been compromised—or whether whoever took the drive had simply known the missing footage would be enough to hide them.

He had always believed some parts of a home should remain private. That a family could not truly live if every hallway and every conversation existed beneath constant observation.

Standing there now, staring at the space where answers should have been, he was no longer sure he wanted to continue that belief. If there had been a camera watching that corridor, perhaps he would already know who had entered this room. Perhaps he would already know whose hands had removed the drive.

Instead, he was left with only questions.

Liam performed one final sweep of the archive before locking the backup unit and turning toward the exit. The steel door opened with a quiet hiss, and he stepped back into the hallway.

Behind him, the door closed once more, sealing away the archive and its unanswered secrets in the same silence that had greeted him. But he had learned one thing. Someone had been inside his house. And they hadn't been afraid he'd notice.

Liam left the archive behind and climbed the narrow stairs through the gym, returning to the main floor.

He rounded the corner near his private wing and stopped.

Elena stood outside his door. She hadn't noticed him yet. She simply stood there, staring at the closed door in front of her, as if debating something. The hesitation caught his attention immediately. The Elena Rossi he knew rarely paused when she had something to say.

Whatever had brought her here seemed to matter.

Then he looked her over as he continued toward her. She was wearing light blue jeans and a simple top, casual enough to remind him of the woman she had been before the gala, before the contract had placed her so firmly inside his world. There was nothing calculated about the way she looked now, and somehow that caught his attention more than the carefully chosen dress she had worn the night before.

He had seen her command attention in a room full of powerful people. He had watched strangers turn toward her at the gala, drawn in by a version of Elena that looked untouchable. But this was different. This was the woman standing outside his door, uncertain whether she should knock.

For a moment, the archive, the missing footage, and the possibility of someone inside his own organization disappeared.

Then Elena finally lifted her hand toward the door.

“Are you looking for me?”