The journal felt heavy in Amara's hands as she crept back into the house through the garden door. Every step echoed louder than the last, the hush of Thornridge Manor wrapping around her like a warning.
She slipped the journal under her sweater, just beneath her waistband. She didn't know who had been watching her in the garden—if anyone—but she wasn't about to take chances.
The corridors of the manor were as cold as ever. The grand halls whispered with age, portraits of long-dead ancestors gazing down at her like they knew her secret. Amara moved quickly, head low, careful not to meet the eyes of any staff she passed.
But as she rounded the corner into the west wing, her breath caught.
There he was.
Eli Thorn.
The elusive billionaire.
She'd only seen him twice since arriving. Once, briefly, during her interview, and again yesterday from across the foyer. But now, up close, he was... intense.
He stood tall and lean in a dark charcoal sweater and slacks, barefoot, like he'd just woken from a nap or a nightmare. His hair was tousled, and a shadow of stubble traced his jawline. The only thing sharper than his appearance were his eyes—gray, unreadable, like winter skies before a storm.
He was watching her.
"You shouldn't be in this part of the house," Eli said, voice low but firm.
Amara straightened her posture, heart thudding. "I—I didn't mean to wander. I was just—"
"Exploring?"
His tone wasn't accusing. More… curious. Which somehow unnerved her even more.
She nodded slowly, trying not to look guilty. "I've always loved old houses. They tell stories."
Eli stepped forward, closing the distance. "Some stories are best left untold."
Amara met his gaze, her pulse fluttering. "I don't believe that. Stories buried in silence only rot. They don't heal."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression. Surprise? Pain? Recognition?
Then it was gone.
"You're not like the others," he said, almost to himself. "You ask questions."
"Is that a problem?"
"No," he murmured. "It's dangerous."
The silence between them stretched like a wire. Sharp. Tense. Something about him pulled at her curiosity. A man so used to hiding behind walls—both physical and emotional—that his presence alone felt like a locked door.
"I should get back to work," she said quietly.
"Stay away from the west wing," Eli warned. "Some doors are locked for a reason."
She hesitated, then nodded.
But as she turned to leave, his voice followed her.
"And Amara…?"
She paused.
"There's more danger in what you don't know than in what you do."
Back in her room, Amara shut the door and pulled out the journal. She read more, flipping through entries filled with her mother's careful script.
Selene had been scared. Not just of Eli—though his name appeared more than once—but of the people around him. Business associates. Old friends. Even staff. The way she described it, Thornridge had become a prison with secrets hidden in every corner.
One page stood out:
"He didn't kill her. But he knows who did."
Who was "he"?
Was it Eli?
A knock startled her. She shoved the journal under the bed and opened the door.
It was Margot. She carried a tray with tea and a covered dish.
"You didn't come to breakfast," she said, not unkindly.
"Lost track of time," Amara replied, taking the tray.
Margot lingered.
"I saw you in the garden," she said. "At the bench."
Amara nodded. "Did you ever read her journal?"
Margot's eyes hardened slightly. "Some pages are best unread."
"Maybe. But I need to know why she disappeared."
Margot leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Then be careful where you look, Amara. This house has buried things deeper than just memories."
Later that night, unable to sleep, Amara padded barefoot down the hall. The house creaked and sighed in its old bones. Every flickering candle sconce cast long shadows, twisting her imagination into shapes she didn't want to name.
She paused outside the locked door at the end of the west wing. The one Selene mentioned in her journal.
It was exactly as she remembered—thick oak, reinforced, with no visible knob.
But now, she noticed something different.
The faint scent of roses. Her mother's perfume.
Her breath caught.
And then—
A whisper.
So faint, so quick, she couldn't be sure if it had come from beyond the door or from her own mind.
But it sounded like her name.
"Amara..."
She stepped back.
Shaken.