The truth came unexpectedly.
Elena found herself in his study late at night, searching for a sketch she'd misplaced. Instead, her eyes fell on a framed photo tucked in the corner.
A younger Alexander. Smiling. Holding the hand of a woman who looked strikingly like him—same steel-gray eyes, same determined jaw.
Before she could ask, Alexander appeared in the doorway. His face shadowed, unreadable.
"My sister," he said quietly. "She died. A long time ago."
Elena's chest ached. "I'm sorry…"
He walked past her, pouring a drink. "Don't be. It taught me everything I needed to know—that love makes you weak. That trusting someone means giving them a weapon to destroy you."
She stepped closer, her hand brushing his. "Not everyone wants to hurt you, Alexander."
For a moment, his mask cracked. His eyes searched hers, raw and unguarded.
But then he pulled back, walls slamming up again. "Go to bed, Elena."
And she realized—loving Alexander Knight would mean fighting ghosts she could barely see.