Eli had always been composed.
Impeccably dressed. Voice even. Smiles timed like clockwork.
But that morning, as Amara descended the stairs with her mother's journal tucked deep in her pocket, she saw the first crack in his mask.
He was already at the breakfast table — a half-finished cup of coffee in front of him, untouched toast, and an unread tablet flickering to sleep.
He didn't notice her at first.
He was staring at a photograph in his hand.
It wasn't until she said "Good morning" that he jolted like a man awakened from a nightmare.
His smile came a second too late.
"Morning, Amara."
There it was — the tell.
His smile was just a veil.
She poured herself tea and sat across from him. Every sip of warmth was laced with cold suspicion. Her fingers itched to pull out the journal and scream, What did you do to her?
But she waited.
She needed more.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, stirring sugar into his coffee that he still wouldn't drink.
Amara nodded. "I did. Though the house makes some strange noises at night."
A flicker in his eye.
"It's old. Drafts, pipes, the wind…" He trailed off, the lie bitter in his throat.
"Funny," she said, buttering her toast without looking at him. "My mother wrote the same thing."
Silence.
And then, carefully — like a man walking across ice:
"You talk about her a lot."
Amara's eyes met his. "You never do."
The air between them turned brittle.
He rose abruptly, muttering about needing to check on the greenhouse renovations.
But Amara followed, her heart pounding. She needed answers.
Outside, the morning mist curled around the hedges like secrets. The old greenhouse sat at the edge of the estate, glass panes cracked, vines choking the iron frame.
Eli was inside, hands in his coat pockets, staring at nothing.
"Why did you hire me?" she asked from behind him.
He didn't turn. "You were qualified. You needed the job."
"You knew who I was, didn't you?"
His silence was answer enough.
Amara stepped in front of him.
"You painted her. My mother. I found the portrait. I found her journals."
Eli's jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't have gone into that room."
"And you shouldn't have lied to me."
He closed his eyes, like he was bracing for something long buried to rise.
"Your mother was everything I never deserved," he said softly. "She came here to disappear… and I let her."
Amara's breath caught. "Let her?"
"She was scared. Said someone was after her. I thought she was being paranoid. But then she vanished, and… part of me did too."
"Why didn't you tell anyone? Tell me?"
He looked at her then — not the reclusive billionaire, not the cold employer, but a man consumed by regret.
"Because if I told you, you'd leave. And I— I couldn't lose her and you."
The confession hit her like a wave.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To run.
But the storm inside her wasn't ready yet.
There was still more to find.
More to uncover.
Later that night, she sat in her room, reading through another journal entry by candlelight.
"Eli doesn't know. Not fully. I've kept some truths from him. There are things even he shouldn't learn. Because if he does, they'll come for me. Again."
Amara looked up, eyes burning.
Her mother hadn't just run.
She had been hunted.
And Amara was now walking the same path.
Only this time, she wouldn't vanish.
She'd expose the truth.
Even if it destroyed them all.