Liam sat alone at the dining table, the empty chair across from him holding the ghost of her warmth. The door she'd closed behind her stood still, a seam of darkness between the candlelit room and the rest of the manor. He didn't move. His fingers rested on the table's edge, his whiskey glass untouched since he'd set it down an hour ago.

The way she'd called him Liam. Not Mr. Thorn, not with the careful distance she'd wrapped herself in since the gala. Liam. Soft, almost gentle. Then she walked out as though she couldn't get away fast enough.

He picked up the glass, swirled the red once, and set it back down without drinking.

Something was off.

He'd felt it at dinner—the way her eyes tracked him when she thought he wasn't looking, the slight hesitation before each word, the way she'd touched her wine glass as though she needed something solid in her hands. She wasn't the same woman who'd challenged him over billiards, who'd met his stare with that flicker of defiance he found himself craving. This Elena was quieter, more watchful, and Liam couldn't decide what had changed.

His thoughts kept returning to Sebastian Hart. The man had asked her to dinner in front of him, a deliberate move that felt less like an invitation and more like a test of territory. Maybe that was all this was. Hart had gotten under her skin, and she was still deciding how to handle him.

What surprised Liam was that she'd said no. He'd expected her to accept. Hart was charming, polished, and shared her love of art and refinement. He was the safe choice, the easy choice—a man who would take her to galleries, speak her language, and never make her wonder what he wanted from her.

She'd said no, and Liam couldn't decide why that unsettled him more than her saying yes would have.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, embers glowing orange through ash. The room felt too large without her in it. He'd grown used to her presence—the sound of her footsteps, the way she bit her lip when she was thinking. He catalogued details without meaning to, the way he catalogued exits or threats. But she wasn't a threat. She was something else. Something he hadn't named yet and didn't want to.

He stood, the chair scraping against the floor. The sound was too loud in the silence.

His legs carried him out of the dining hall, through the foyer where the single gas lamp cast long shadows across the marble. The manor creaked around him — old bones settling, wood breathing. He'd grown up in these halls, knew every loose floorboard, every draft that slipped through the window frames. The house was a living thing, and tonight it felt restless. Or maybe that was him.

He turned down the eastern corridor toward his private wing. His hand brushed along the dark wood paneling as he walked, the same halls his father had walked, the same halls his grandfather had used when they built the foundation of what would become Thorn Holdings. Men who had taught him that weakness was a wound you showed no one.

Elena was a weakness. He knew it the way he knew the weight of his own bones — an unchangeable fact. He'd wanted her to win that game of billiards. Not for the trip, not for the leverage. He'd wanted her to beat him. To prove she could. And when she'd missed that shot, he'd felt something crack open in his chest that he still hadn't sealed shut.

His hand found the handle to his own door, and he entered. Then paused.

The feeling sharpened as he reached his room.

He couldn't name it — not yet — but the air felt different. Thinner. Like someone had breathed it before him and left it colder. He pushed the door open slowly, his eyes sweeping the room before his body followed.

Nothing out of place. The bed was made, the sheets tight at the corners. His suit jacket hung over the armchair where he'd left it. The window was closed, the curtains drawn. Everything exactly as it should be.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his hand lingering on the handle. The lock clicked into place.

His eyes moved across the room again, slower this time, reading the space the way he read a balance sheet or a man's face across a negotiation table. He noted the slight shift in dust on the dresser, the angle of the lamp, and the way the carpet lay against the floorboards. Everything appeared untouched, everything in its place, and yet something nagged at him.

He crossed to his nightstand, his movements deliberate and unhurried, like a man checking a familiar pocket. Along the seam of the drawer, a thin strip of clear adhesive was almost invisible, pressed flat until it blended into the wood grain. He'd learned the trick from his father, who'd learned it from his. It was a simple test, one designed to go unnoticed by anyone who didn't know where to look.

He bent closer, his breath catching when he saw the break. The tape had split cleanly across the seam, the two edges curling where they'd pulled apart from each other. Someone had opened the drawer. Someone had been in his room.

His pulse didn't change, and neither did his expression. He pulled the drawer open with the same steady hand he'd used a thousand times, his eyes immediately scanning the contents. Pens. A watch he never wore. A spare set of cufflinks. Nothing was missing, and nothing appeared out of place. He reached inside and ran his fingers along the bottom of the drawer until they found the false seam. He pressed down, and the panel lifted.

The notebook was there. The pen rested in its groove exactly where he'd left it, everything undisturbed. Only then did he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Whoever had been here hadn't found the false bottom. The notebook remained exactly where he'd hidden it.

He replaced the panel, closed the drawer, and moved to the other nightstand without hesitation. The tape on this one was broken too. He pulled the drawer open and found nothing missing. A few receipts. A spare key. A book he'd started reading months ago and never finished. Everything in its place.

He straightened, his eyes traveling the room one final time.

Someone had searched his room tonight. While he'd been at dinner. While Elena had been in the dining hall with him. While the manor had been occupied but distracted. The intruder had moved through his private space, opened his drawers, touched his things — and left no trace except the broken tape that only he would notice.

His mind turned through the possibilities like a lock combination.

Presley was loyal. Victor was loyal. The lieutenants were at Thorn Holdings or their own homes, not here. The household staff had been vetted and vetted again before they'd set foot in the manor. The only person in the house who hadn't been subjected to that process — the only variable — was Elena.

His jaw tightened.

Could she have done this? Could she have slipped out of her room, crossed the landing, and entered his suite while he was in the dining hall? She had the opportunity. The timing lined up — they'd finished dinner, she'd said goodnight, and he'd stayed at the table for nearly twenty minutes before following. Twenty minutes was more than enough time to search a room.

But she didn't know about the tape. She didn't know about the false bottom. If she'd been searching for the notebook, she wouldn't have known it was there. And if she hadn't known what she was looking for, why search the drawers at all?

He ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm.

It could have been the archive intruder. The same person who'd breached the security room, deleted the footage, disabled the backup. If they'd managed to get into the manor once, they could do it again. And if they'd been watching — if they knew he kept information in his room — then the breach tonight was a continuation of the same play.

But something didn't sit right.

The archive breach had been surgical. Whoever had deleted the footage knew exactly where to go and what to disconnect. This search felt different. Too broad. Too uncertain. Like someone digging for an answer instead of stealing a specific one.

He stood in the center of his room, the silence pressing in around him, and let the thought settle.

Elena had come to his door yesterday morning. She'd been nervous, her hand raised as she'd been about to knock. She'd asked for a rematch at billiards — a game she'd almost won, a game that had crackled with something neither of them had named. And tonight, she'd been different. Watchful. Careful. Saying his name like she was testing how it felt on her tongue.

He didn't want it to be her.

The thought arrived without permission, and he didn't push it away. If it was her, then everything he'd felt tonight—the pull, the recognition, the quiet wanting that had been building in his chest since the first time she'd met his eyes across that conference table—was a mistake.

But wanting something didn't make it true.

He crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The grounds stretched out below, dark and wet, the fountain catching the faint light of the moon behind the clouds. The Briar Rose sat moored at the dock, its lights off and waiting. Tomorrow morning, he'd have her on that boat, alone, for a week. No manor, no Sebastian Hart, no distractions. Just the two of them, away from everything else.

The itinerary could wait. If she was hiding something, the week would begin on his terms. He'd watch her, learn her, and pay attention to every detail she thought he wasn't noticing. And if she was the one who'd searched his room, if she was playing a game he hadn't been told about, he'd find out.

He let the curtain fall and turned back to the room.

The nightstand drawers were closed. The broken tape was still in place, invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look. He'd replace it tomorrow, set the trap again, and wait. Whoever had been here would try again. They always did.

He pulled off his jacket, draped it over the armchair, and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was too quiet. Too still. He could still smell her — that faint scent from the dining hall, something floral and warm, the way she'd leaned past him to set down her wine glass. He could still hear her voice. Goodnight, Liam.

He lay back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, he'd have her alone. He'd get the truth out of her—one way or another.

Because before the week was over, Liam needed to know whose side she was really on.