The Connor estate stood like a fortress against the gray morning light, its high walls and pristine grounds hiding generations of carefully curated secrets. The main hall smelled faintly of rosewood polish and old money—timeless, immovable. But something was about to shift.
Amanda Wynn stepped out of her sleek black car with a determined breath. The driveway stones crunched beneath her heels, and each step toward the front door felt like walking into a battlefield. She wore a pale cream coat over black slacks, not quite mourning, but not celebration either.
The butler opened the door before she could knock—of course. At the Connor estate, no one knocked. Everyone was expected.
"Ms. Wynn," he said with a courteous bow. "They're waiting for you in the drawing room."
Of course they were.
Mildred and Gregory Connor sat beside the fireplace, framed by oil paintings of ancestors who stared down with stern eyes. Mildred wore a deep emerald dress, her posture regal and spine unforgivingly straight. Gregory, in a tailored navy suit, didn't rise from his chair. He simply watched Amanda with the hawk-eyed precision of a man used to orchestrating empires.
Amanda crossed the room slowly, her every movement measured, a relic of the training she'd received since childhood. But something inside her had splintered, and that fracture gave her clarity. She stood just out of reach, chin held high.
"I'm ending the engagement," she said, without preamble.
The air turned cold. Mildred's expression didn't falter, but her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the porcelain teacup in her lap. Gregory's lips parted slightly, as if he hadn't quite heard.
"I beg your pardon?" Mildred asked, voice like cracked ice.
"I said, I'm done. I'm walking away. From William. From all of this."
There was a long pause.
"Is this because of him?" Gregory finally said, his voice hardening.
Amanda didn't need to ask who he meant. "Yes," she said. "But not the way you think."
Mildred rose then, slow and deliberate. "That boy—Archie—is a ghost from the past. A mistake we buried years ago for William's sake. You know what it would mean for him to resurface. The press. The family reputation."
Amanda's voice wavered only slightly. "I know more than you think. I know about the accident. The hospital. The forced therapy sessions. The years of silence. You didn't protect him—you changed him."
Gregory stood now too, jaw clenched. "We did what was necessary. William had a future, one that didn't include childish fantasies or... that boy's influence."
"He loves him," Amanda said softly. "Or maybe he did. But what matters is that he remembers him now. And he's drowning in the weight of what you made him forget."
Mildred took a step forward. "You are walking away from everything we offered you. Power. Legacy."
Amanda's voice broke for the first time. "I was never yours to own."
There was silence again—heavy, electric.
Then Mildred did something Amanda didn't expect.
She laughed.
Low and sharp and bitter.
"Oh, my dear. You think this is about love? About heartbreak? You have no idea what you've stepped into."
Gregory walked to a tall cabinet and pulled out a leather folder. He handed it to Mildred, who opened it slowly and held up a document.
Amanda frowned. It looked like a hospital file.
She walked closer. The name at the top made her stomach drop.
Archie Collins.
"This," Mildred said, her voice silk-wrapped steel, "is the original file from the night of the accident. You're right—it wasn't just memory loss. William didn't forget Archie. He was made to."
Amanda's mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"
Gregory spoke now, voice cold and distant. "There were signs of trauma. Conflicting testimony. William's memories of Archie weren't just romantic—they were obsessive. Paranoid. Dangerous. William and this Archie tried to runaway from this city. From this country. From all of us. That's when the car accident happened."
Amanda shook her head. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Mildred said. "Ask yourself why William never talked about that night. Ask why Archie was kept away."
She stepped closer.
"You think you're doing something brave? Telling William to choose his truth? What if that truth isn't safe? What if remembering Archie ruins him?"
Amanda's pulse thundered in her ears. "You manipulated everything," she whispered. "You're still trying to."
Mildred leaned in, her voice venomously sweet. "And you helped us. Until now."
Amanda turned and left without another word. Her hands shook as she reached her car, but her mind burned with clarity.
She had to warn them.
-
Back on campus, Archie was sitting on a bench under the budding sycamore tree outside the student union, waiting for Anne. His phone buzzed. A message from Amanda.
"They know. Get William somewhere safe. There's more to the accident than he remembers."
Before he could finish reading, a black car pulled into the lot across the street. The windows were tinted.
And inside the library, William felt a sudden rush of dizziness. The journal before him blurred, and something deep in his head ached—as if something was trying to surface.
Something he had never wanted to remember.
Or maybe something someone didn't want him to remember.
And across the quad, Amanda was already running.
She had crossed a line. And now, they all had.
The truth wasn't just dangerous anymore.
It was lethal.