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 glass of whiskey untouched from where he'd set it down an hour ago.
She'd called him Liam. Not Mr. Thorn. Not with that careful distance she'd wrapped herself in since the gala. Liam. Soft. Almost gentle. And then she'd walked out like she couldn't get away fast enough.
He picked up the glass, swirled the amber 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 like she needed something solid in her hands. She'd been different since the gala. Not 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. Watchful. Like she'd found a piece of a puzzle she hadn't expected.
His jaw tightened.
Sebastian Hart. The man had asked her to dinner in front of him — a deliberate move, a test of territory.
What surprised him was that she'd said no. Liam had expected her to say yes. Hart was charming, polished, shared her love of art and refinement. He was the safe choice, the easy choice. A man who would take her to galleries and speak her language and never once make her feel like prey.
She'd said no.
He didn't know 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 climbed the stairs, his hand trailing along the bannister. The wood was smooth, worn by decades of hands before his. His father's grip. His grandfather's. Men who'd built this empire with their teeth and their silence. Men who'd 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.
He reached the second-floor landing and turned toward his private wing. The hallway stretched ahead of him, dimly lit, the runner muffling his footsteps. He passed the door to Elena's room — closed, no light beneath it. Asleep, or pretending to be. Either way, she was on the other side of that wood, and he could feel the distance like a pulled muscle.
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. The slight shift in dust on the dresser. The angle of the lamp. The way the carpet lay against the floorboards.
Everything appeared untouched. Everything in its place.
And yet.
He crossed to his nightstand, his movements deliberate, unhurried. A man checking a familiar pocket. The tape was almost invisible — a thin strip of clear adhesive he'd placed along the seam of the drawer, pressed flat until it became part of the wood grain. He'd learned the trick from his father, who'd learned it from his. A simple test. Invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look.
He bent closer, his breath catching.
Broken.
The tape was split clean across the seam, the two edges curling where they'd separated from each other. Someone had opened this drawer. Someone had been in his room.
His pulse didn't change. His expression didn't change. He pulled the drawer open with the same steady hand he'd used a thousand times, his eyes already scanning the contents. Pens. A watch he never wore. A spare set of cufflinks. Nothing missing, nothing shifted — not visibly. He reached in and felt along the bottom of the drawer, his fingers finding the false seam. He pressed, and the panel lifted.
The notebook was there. The pen was there, resting in its groove exactly where he'd left it, all of it undisturbed.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was 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, 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 through 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. And if she'd been looking for something, she hadn't found it. The notebook was untouched. The diagram was undisturbed. Whatever she might have been searching for, she'd come up empty.
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 this 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. He didn't want it to be her because 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. A blind spot. A weakness he'd walked into with his eyes open because he'd wanted to believe she was different.
But wanting something didn't make it true.
He crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The grounds stretched out below — dark, wet, the fountain catching the faint light from the moon behind the clouds. The Briar Rose was moored at the dock, its lights off, waiting. Tomorrow morning, he'd have her on that boat, alone, for a week. No manor. No Sebastian Hart. No distractions.
The itinerary could wait. If she was hiding something, the week would begin on his terms. He'd watch her. He'd learn her. 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. And he'd get the truth out of her — one way or another.
But first, he needed to know whose side she was really on. And whether the woman who'd said his name like a goodbye had ever been who he'd believed.
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