By morning, Amara knew two things for certain.
One: Eli was hiding more than just secrets — he was guarding ghosts.
Two: Whatever she thought she knew about her position here was a carefully orchestrated illusion.
She walked into the study that morning with every intention to confront him. But the room was empty.
No trace of the man whose voice haunted her dreams.
Instead, she found a folder lying neatly on the desk, labeled in black ink: AMARA WYATT. CONFIDENTIAL.
Her fingers hesitated, trembling.
Then she opened it.
What she found wasn't just a copy of her application. It was her entire life.
Birth certificate. School records. Old photographs. A police report from when she was twelve — the night her mother went missing.
Who gathered all this?
How did Eli have it?
Why?
"I told you to stay out of things that aren't yours."
His voice cut through the air.
Amara spun around.
Eli stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her carefully. But his eyes… they were different this time. Not just distant — protective. But also calculating. Like he was trying to decide if she was still worth the risk.
"You were going to tell me?" she asked, holding up the file.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I knew this day would come. I just didn't think it would be this soon."
She stared at him, every nerve taut. "Who am I really working for, Eli?"
He sighed and walked toward the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a drink despite the early hour. "You were never hired through any agency."
Amara's stomach dropped.
"No references were checked," he continued. "No contract was signed. You didn't even have a formal interview."
"You set this up," she whispered.
"I needed someone I could trust," he said. "Someone with a reason to stay."
"You picked me because of my mother."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he looked into his glass like it held all the answers he couldn't say aloud. "Your mother was kind. Strong. Brave. Too brave."
"What did she find here?"
"More than she should have," he said quietly. "And I think you will too — unless you leave."
"I'm not leaving."
"You should."
"Why? So I don't end up like her?"
His silence confirmed what she already feared.
Later, Amara found Margot in the kitchen, slicing pears with practiced ease. The blade moved quickly, rhythmically.
"Did you know I was never really hired?"
Margot didn't flinch. "Of course."
"You're all in on this."
"No, dear," Margot said. "We're not in on anything. We're trapped in it."
"What does that mean?"
Margot placed the knife down and looked her dead in the eye. "This house doesn't let people go. Not easily. Not without a price."
Amara's chest tightened. "What kind of price?"
"Truth."
That night, Amara searched the manor's library. She dug through cabinets, files, anything she could get her hands on. Behind an old armoire, she found a locked drawer.
The key was hidden in the back of a Shakespeare volume. Fitting, she thought.
Inside the drawer was a photo.
Old, faded.
It showed Eli — but younger. Smiling. Next to a woman who looked achingly familiar.
Her mother.
They stood outside Thornridge Manor.
Her mother's hand rested on her belly — pregnant.
Amara's vision blurred.
She couldn't breathe.
There was writing on the back:
"To Eli. For the child we'll protect — no matter the cost."
Her fingers shook.
She was wrong.
This job wasn't just about the past.
It was about her.