Chapter One
The rain on my window wasn't just falling; it was shattering. Each drop hit the glass like tiny bullets. The wind howled a familiar tune in this part of the city. The air smelled of wet pavement, distant fried food, and desperation. I recognised that scent well.
I stared at my laptop screen. The words in the Maple Grove Care Facility email blurred into a harsh block of text: Final Notice. Eviction Proceedings. Thirty Days.
The knot in my stomach tightened, bringing a chill of dread. This wasn't about my apartment. This shabby place, with its leaky kitchen faucet and the lingering scent of my neighbour's cheap perfMs, felt like a fortress comgreyd to where my dad was. Maple Grove was the last, worn-out safety net. It was the final place that would take him after the stroke took his words and mobility but never the knowing light in his eyes.
"It's okay, Dad," I whispered to the empty room. My words felt like a hollow promise. "I'll figure it out." That phrase became my mantra, my shield against a world that kept making life more expensive.
My part-time job at the university library and my small grad student stipend were a joke compared to the mountain of medical bills. I sold everything that wasn't nailed down, including my mom's locket. That loss still hurts, a physical ache under my ribs. I spent my days studying the cold, constant fire of distant stars, but their silent, ancient light provided no answers. It only made me feel smaller.
A sharp, impatient knock rattled my door. My heart jumped. Mrs. Gable. Her timing was always awful.
"Lyra? I know you're in there. I need to talk to you about next month's rent."
I froze, my fingers gripping the edge of my rickety desk. I had nothing to give her. No story she hadn't heard before, no promise I could keep. The walls of my life were closing in, and I was out of options.
The knock came again, harder this time. "Lyra!"
"Just a minute!" I called back, my voice tight with panic.
Then my laptop chimed. It was a soft, melodic sound that felt out of place amidst the chaos. I looked down. A new email was flagged as High Priority. The sender's name made my breath hitch and my panic momentarily froze.
Cassian Orion. Orion Global Industries.
The name was a landmark. It stood for impossible innovation, reclusive genius, and wealth so vast it felt unreal. What could a man like that want with me? It had to be spam, some elaborate phishing attempt. But the domain looked perfect, and the digital security seals seemed legitimate.
Mrs Gable's voice cut through the door. "I don't have all day!"
My heart raced against my ribs, matching the storm outside and the one in my hallway. With a shaking hand, I clicked the email open.
The message was short, formal, and completely bewildering.
Ms. Thorne,
My name is Cassian Orion. I recently reviewed your graduate thesis, "Quantum Signatures in Neutron Star Collisions," through a university connection. Your work is not only impressive but offers a unique perspective that closely matches a private, long-term research project of mine.
I am writing to offer you a specialized, three-month residential research assistantship. The project is sensitive, requiring full confidentiality and your complete involvement. As such, the position is residential, based at my private research facility, the Celestial Residence.
The pay for this three-month contract is $250,000, paid in full upon successful completion. All living expenses will be covered.
I know this is an unusual request. I've arranged for a car to pick you up tomorrow at 10:00 AM if you wish to discuss further details in person. There will be no obligations.
Sincerely,
Cassian Orion
I read it. Then I read it again. And a third time.
$250,000.
The figure didn't make sense. It felt like Monopoly money. It belonged to other people; people who didn't have final notices on their screens or landladies at their door.
It was a life-changing amount. It meant security for my father. It offered reality — a future without the constant, grinding fear.
Mrs. Gable knocked again, a final, warning thump. "I'm putting a note on your door, Lyra! This is your last warning!"
Her words snapped me out of my daze. This was insane. A reclusive billionaire? A private residence? Full immersion? Every rational bone in my body, every ounce of street smarts I'd gained living here, screamed that this was a trap. It was too good to be true. It had to be a scam.
But what if it wasn't?
I glanced around my tiny, rain-soaked apartment. I looked at the final notice on my screen. I thought of my father's face, the way he attempted to smile for me even when he was scared.
What other choice did I have?
Before I could second-guess myself or let fear win, my fingers flew across the keyboard.
Mr. Orion,
Thank you for your message. I will be there tomorrow at 10:00 AM.
Lyra Thorne
I hit send. The message disappeared into the digital void, a single, reckless leap of hope into the unknown.
The knocking at my door had stopped. The only sound was the relentless rain and the frantic beating of my own heart. I had just agreed to meet a man who offered me the stars or a gilded prison. I had no idea which it was.
All I knew was that for the first time in a long time, I had taken a step forward instead of being pushed back. And that was terrifying.
Chapter 2
The black car arrived at 9:59 AM, sleek and silent like a shark moving through the murky water of my neighborhood. It looked out of place next to a dumpster overflowing with garbage bags. A man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood beside the open rear door, his face blank.
"Ms. Thorne?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"That's me," I replied, my voice sounding small and young. I gripped my worn leather satchel that held my laptop, a change of clothes, and every important document I owned. It felt more like I was heading to the airport rather than a job interview. But what do you wear to meet a reclusive billionaire who could be your financial savior or a complete psychopath?
The driver nodded briefly and signaled for me to get in. Inside, the car was filled with cool, cream-colored leather and polished dark wood. It smelled like money—clean and expensive. As I sank into the seat, I felt the gritty reality of my life drift away from me. The door closed with a soft thud, cocooning me in this quiet, luxurious space.
We drove for what felt like an hour, moving from the crowded streets of my neighborhood to the wide, manicured boulevards in the city's financial center. I watched the world through tinted windows, my reflection a pale, wide-eyed ghost merging with the passing city.
The car finally pulled into the underground garage of a skyscraper that reached the clouds, a striking structure of steel and glass. Orion Global Industries. The logo, a stylized constellation, was everywhere.
My escort led me to a private elevator that needed a keycard and a retinal scan. The doors opened into an anteroom, then into an office that resembled an observatory.
The entire far wall was a single, curved pane of glass, showcasing a breathtaking view of the city and the lake beyond. The ceiling looked like a map of the universe, with stars lit by faint fiber-optic light. The room had minimal furnishings—a large desk made from a single piece of petrified wood, two simple chairs, and one large screen showing a live feed of a solar flare.
He stood by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the vast sky. He was taller than I had imagined, with broad shoulders narrowing to a lean waist. He wore a simple, expertly tailored dark suit, without a tie.
"Ms. Thorne," he said, turning to face me. His voice matched the tone of the email—calm, measured, and with a quiet intensity that seemed to vibrate in the air. "Thank you for coming."
Cassian Orion looked younger than I had pictured, maybe in his mid-thirties. His hair was dark ash, and his eyes were a striking pale gray, like the sky before a storm. They were sharp and assessing, holding my gaze with an unsettling directness. He was handsome, with sharp angles and a firm, unsmiling mouth.
"Mr. Orion," I managed to say, my voice steady. "Thank you for the… unusual offer."
A hint of a smile crossed his lips. "Please, sit." He gestured toward one of the chairs. He didn't sit behind his desk. Instead, he chose the chair across from me, leaning slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees. It felt oddly intimate for a first meeting, as if we were colleagues rather than a potential employer and employee.
"I imagine you have questions," he began.
"A few," I said, clutching my satchel on my lap like a shield. "My thesis is highly theoretical. I can't see how it would be useful for a private research initiative."
"Theoretical physics forms the basis of practical revolution, Ms. Thorne," he replied, his gray eyes shining. "Orion Global is on the cusp of breakthroughs in quantum computing and materials science. Your work on quantum signatures offers a new way to look at data patterns we've found challenging. You have a unique perspective on problems, and that is the asset I'm interested in."
It sounded believable. Incredible, but believable. He spoke about complex theories with a fluency that indicated he wasn't just a businessman; he was a scientist too.
"What about the residential requirement? The isolation?" I asked, voicing my biggest concern. "It seems extreme."
His expression turned serious. "The projects we work on are worth billions. Industrial espionage isn't just a trope; it's a real threat. The Celestial Residence offers a secure environment, and its location is confidential. All research requires on-site work. No data can move in or out. This is the only way to guarantee total security." He paused, his gaze steady. "The pay accounts for the… inconvenience of these terms."
Inconvenience. A quarter of a million dollars for three months of inconvenience. The number echoed in my mind, quieting my doubts.
"What if I… want to leave?" I asked, the question feeling silly even as I spoke it.
Something unreadable flickered in his stormy eyes. "You can leave at any time, Ms. Thorne. However, the full compensation would depend on completing the three-month term." He said it smoothly and reasonably. It made sense. Why would he pay me if I quit?
He stood and walked back to the window, looking out at his domain. "The work is demanding. The environment is isolated. But I promise you this: the resources available will be unlike anything you've ever known. Our observatory has capabilities that would amaze NASA. You'll be able to pursue your research without the distractions of the outside world, without its burdens."
He turned to look at me again, and his gaze felt like it could see right through my cheap blazer, straight to the final notice burning a hole in my bag. It was as if he understood exactly what burdens I carried.
"I need an answer today," he said, his voice soft with no room for negotiation. "The car can take you home or to the helipad."
My mouth went dry. A helipad. Naturally.
This was my turning point. I could walk out of this sky palace, retreat back to the rain, Mrs. Gable, and the certain loss of my father's home. Or I could step into the unknown.
I thought of my dad's face. I thought of the eviction notice. I thought of the stars, and of the man offering them to me on a silver platter.
Fear was a luxury I couldn't afford.
I took a deep breath, my decision firming up in my chest. "I don't need the car to take me home," I said, standing up. I met his intense gray gaze and hoped he couldn't see my hands shaking. "I'm ready to see the helipad."
Chapter Three
The helicopter wasn't the loud, shuddering machine I had seen in movies. It was a smooth, elegant vehicle, its interior as quiet and comfortable as the car had been. As we took off from the skyscraper's pad, the city shrank beneath us, turning into a grid of toy blocks and bright streams of traffic. My stomach twisted, but it was more from the shock of my choice than the height.
Cassian Orion sat across from me, his eyes fixed on the window, staring at the world he seemed to own a piece of. He hadn't said much since we boarded, and the silence felt heavy and expectant. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles turning white.
"The residence is in the Northern Cascades," he said, his voice cutting through the low hum of the rotors. He didn't raise his voice; he just spoke, and I heard him clearly. "The isolation is key to the work. It allows for… clarity."
I nodded, my throat too tight to respond. We flew north, the urban sprawl giving way to patches of forest, then to a continuous, rolling sea of deep green. The mountains rose to meet us, ancient and majestic, with snow still dusting their peaks even this late in the spring.
Just as the silence felt stifling, we banked around a jagged peak. Then I saw it.
My breath caught in my chest.
The Celestial Residence. The name wasn't poetic; it was straightforward. It was a stunning structure of glass and steel, built into the rugged mountain. It didn't clash with the wilderness; it seemed to grow from it, a shimmering extension of the cliff face. One side of the building was a curved wall of flawless glass, reflecting the sky and surrounding peaks so perfectly that it was almost invisible.
We descended onto a helipad that extended from a lower terrace. The wind here was brisk and cold, infused with the scent of pine and fresh, clean air. It was a shock to my system after the city's grime.
A woman and a man waited for us, both dressed in simple, elegant black uniforms. They stood still and composed, like statues.
"This is Ms. Davies, the residence manager," Cassian said, his tone like a conductor introducing an orchestra. The woman, looking to be in her fifties with a strict silver bob and sharp eyes, gave a slight, formal nod. "And this is Robert, who handles security and general operations." The man was broad-shouldered, with a quiet, watchful intensity. He didn't nod, just met my gaze for a brief moment before looking past me, scanning the horizon.
"Welcome to the Celestial Residence, Ms. Thorne," Ms. Davies said. Her voice was cool and efficient, flowing like a stream over smooth stones. "Mr. Orion has informed us of your needs. We are here to make sure your stay is productive and comfortable."
"Thank you," I replied, my voice sounding small against the vastness of the sky.
"Robert will take your bag to your quarters," Cassian said. "I'd like to show you the main reason you're here."
He led me away from the helipad, through sliding glass doors that opened silently. The inside was even more stunning than the outside. The air was perfectly temperate. The polished dark stone floor felt warm under my feet. The main living area was vast, with ceilings soaring two stories high. The focal point was a huge glass wall, framing a view of mountains and sky so breathtaking it looked like a painted backdrop.
But he didn't stop there. He guided me down a wide corridor, our footsteps echoing in the calm. He paused before double doors made of rich, dark wood.
"This," he said, pushing them open, "is where the magic happens."
I stepped inside and felt my jaw drop. It was an observatory. But it was unlike any university facility I had ever worked in. It was a circular room, its domed ceiling a feat of engineering. One portion of the wall was the same continuous glass as the living area, but here, advanced telescopes and other instruments I couldn't name were mounted, ready to explore the heavens.
In the center of the room was a large, horseshoe-shaped console filled with monitors, readouts, and controls that looked like they belonged on a starship. Data streams flowed across screens, with charts of celestial bodies and radiation readings that I longed to understand.
"My God," I whispered, the words escaping my lips before I could stop them. I walked forward, my hand hovering over the console, afraid to touch its shining surface. "This is… this is amazing."
I turned to find him watching me, a faint, satisfied smile on his lips. He enjoyed my amazement. "It is, isn't it? The latest in spectroscopy, interferometry, and a radio telescope array on the north ridge. All of it, yours to control for the next three months."
"To control?" I repeated, stunned.
"Your mind is the asset, Lyra," he said, and his use of my first name felt deliberate, a subtle change in our dynamic. "The equipment is just a tool. I want you to dive deep into the data anomaly I mentioned. I want you to question everything. I want you to immerse yourself in it."
The way he said it felt less like a job and more like an invitation to share an obsession. His pale gray eyes sparkled with a passionate intensity that was both intimidating and magnetic.
He showed me to my room. It wasn't just a room; it was a suite. The bed was a vast platform draped in linens that felt like cool water against my skin. Another glass wall looked out onto a private terrace overlooking a dizzying drop into a valley filled with pines. There was a sitting area, a bathroom with a sunken tub that also faced the view, and a walk-in closet stocked with clothes in my size. It was terrifyingly perfect.
"Dinner is at eight," he said from the doorway. "Ms. Davies will show you to the dining room. Rest. Get accustomed. The work begins tomorrow."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
I was alone. The mountain's silence pressed in on me, so complete it was a sound in itself. I walked to the glass wall and pressed my palms against it. The glass was cold and impossibly solid. I looked down at the vast, empty wilderness below. I glanced back at the luxurious, lonely room behind me.
Then, a sudden, sharp realization hit me: there were no door handles on the inside of the glass doors to the terrace. I approached the main door to my suite. No lock. No way to secure it from the inside.
A chill of unease traced a path down my spine. The stunning view felt less like a privilege and more like a display case.
I was in a cage. The most beautiful, luxurious cage imaginable.
And I had just agreed to stay for three months.
Chapter Four
The silence was the first thing I had to get used to. It wasn't just the lack of sound; it was a deep, humming quiet. The only interruptions came from the wind sighing against glass and the distant, lonely cry of an eagle. After a lifetime of city noise—sirens, shouting, the constant rumble of life—the peace felt almost overwhelming.
I unpacked my few belongings. They looked sad and out of place in the vast, minimalist luxury of the walk-in closet. The new clothes were all my size and in my preferred style of simple, comfortable fabrics. It was observant, yet intrusive. I tried not to think about how he knew.
At precisely 7:55 PM, a discreet chime echoed through the room. Ms. Davies's voice, cool and efficient, followed. "Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes, Ms. Thorne. The dining room is down the main corridor, to the left of the great room."
My stomach fluttered with a nervousness that felt silly. It was dinner. With my boss. In a billion-dollar mountain fortress. No big deal.
I changed into one of the provided outfits—a simple, emerald green sweater and dark trousers that fit me perfectly. That detail made me uneasy. I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I looked like a polished version of myself, placed in a diorama.
The dining room displayed more breathtaking minimalism. A long table of gleaming ebony wood sat under a constellation of delicate glass pendant lights. The glass wall showcased the deepening twilight, the sky shifting from fiery orange to a rich, velvety blue. Only two places were set, at opposite ends of the large table. The distance felt intentional, formal.
Cassian entered a moment later. He had changed from his suit into dark trousers and a charcoal sweater that emphasized his sharp gray eyes. He looked more approachable, but somehow that made him more dangerous.
"Lyra," he said, his voice warming the cool room. "I hope you're settling in."
"It's… overwhelming," I admitted as a man in a white jacket—a chef, I presumed—served the first course, a delicate soup that smelled of wild mushrooms and herbs. "In the best possible way. The observatory is a dream."
"I'm glad you think so," he said, taking a sip of water. "It was built to be one. To remove the barriers between a theorist and the cosmos." He began to ask me questions—not about my debt or my life, but about my work. He inquired about my thesis's implications and where I thought the next breakthrough in astrophysics would come from. His passion was utterly captivating.
The formal distance at the table shrank with each exchanged idea. Our conversation moved from quantum mechanics to the philosophy of a finite universe, to the sheer, terrifying beauty of a black hole's event horizon. I leaned forward, my food forgotten, gesturing with my hands as I explained a particularly complex theory.
He listened—not just politely, but with a deep, focused intensity that made me feel like I was the only person in the universe. He challenged me and debated a point about dark matter, his sharp intellect leaving me breathless and thrilled.
"Most people," I finally said, laughing a bit as the dessert course—a dark chocolate torte—was placed before us, "tune out when I talk about redshift."
A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. It transformed his face, softening his severe handsomeness into something more approachable, even warm. "Most people are not looking at the stars, Lyra. They are looking at their feet, worried about tripping on the cracks in the pavement."
The comment felt personal, a reference to the life I'd left behind. The warmth of the conversation chilled slightly.
"And you?" I asked cautiously. "You look at the stars. Why? What are you looking for up there?"
His smile faded. The shutters came down behind his eyes, the intensity turning inward, becoming something darker. He looked out at the now-black window, where our reflections mingled with the starry sky.
"I'm looking for a solution," he said, his voice low. "An answer to a problem that should not exist."
He didn't explain further. Silence filled the space with the things he wasn't saying. The chef and the server had vanished, leaving us alone in the vast, silent room.
"Tomorrow," he said suddenly, pushing back his chair and standing. The moment of intimacy was over; the reclusive billionaire had returned. "The work begins. I'll meet you in the observatory at nine. Sleep well, Lyra."
He left without another word. I sat at the enormous table, surrounded by signs of his vast wealth, feeling more confused than ever. The man was a contradiction. He could be open and intellectually thrilling one moment and closed off and cryptic the next.
I found my way back to my room, my mind racing. The encounter had been electric. He was brilliant and magnetic. For a few hours, I'd forgotten about the eviction notice, my father, and the locked terrace doors. I'd just been a scientist talking to another scientist.
But as I walked down the eerily quiet corridor, I noticed something I hadn't before. Partway down the hall, a section of the wall looked different. It wasn't made of the natural stone or rich wood paneling found throughout the residence. Instead, it was a smooth, seamless metallic surface, with no visible handle or keypad. A single, small red light glowed faintly near the floor.
A secured wing. The secured wing. The one he'd mentioned in his initial offer. The one for "sensitive" projects.
My scientific curiosity battled against a fresh wave of unease. What kind of research needed that level of security in a home that was already a fortress? Astrophysics, even cutting-edge quantum work, didn't require airtight metal doors.
I reached my room and slipped inside, half-expecting the door to lock behind me. It didn't. It swung shut silently, leaving me in the plush, silent darkness.
I was exhausted, but sleep felt impossible. I went to the glass wall and stared out at the incredible panorama of stars. The view was clearer than any I'd ever seen, untainted by city lights or people.
I'm looking for a solution. An answer to a problem that should not exist.
His words echoed in my mind. They didn't sound like the words of a man trying to build a better quantum computer. They sounded like the words of a man trying to solve a deeply personal, painful problem.
A light flickered in my peripheral vision. Down on a lower terrace, partially hidden by the architectural lines of the residence, a figure was moving. Cassian. He stood there, looking out at the vast darkness I was gazing at, his posture rigid and his head bowed as if burdened by a tremendous weight.
He stayed there for a long time, a solitary figure against the epic canvas of the universe. He looked less like a master of his domain and more like its loneliest prisoner.
In that moment, fear and fascination twisted together inside me, inseparable. I was afraid of the locked doors and the secrets, yet utterly captivated by the lonely, brilliant man who held the keys.
I didn't know which feeling would win. And I didn't know if the answer would save me or destroy me.
Chapter five
Sleep came in fragments. I'd fall asleep, then wake suddenly to the heavy silence or the strange emptiness surrounding me. My dreams mixed locked doors with Dad's worried face, layered over star charts I couldn't figure out.
When the room's artificial sunrise brightened at 7:00 AM, I was already awake, my nerves buzzing with excitement and fear.
Ms. Davies acted like a polite robot. Breakfast was ready in the kitchen: coffee, fruit, and a pastry on the marble counter. She wasn't around, but the coffee was fresh and hot. Efficient, but cold, like being served by a very quiet computer program.
At 8:55, I stood outside the telescope room doors, clutching my bag that held my notebook and tablet. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Cassian was already there. He faced away from me, hunched over the main control panel, his fingers moving quickly across a glowing holographic screen. Streams of data flowed around him like digital waterfalls. He looked like he was part of the machine, completely absorbed.
He didn't turn around. "City rhythms are hard to break, aren't they? Your body expects noise. Expect chaos."
I jumped, startled that he recognized me without looking. "It's… really quiet here."
"You'll learn to love the silence. That's when the real work happens." He finally turned to me. He looked energized, last night's intensity sharpened. "Ready to start?"
"Yes." The word came out breathless.
He pointed to the chair next to him at the console. Not across from him; right next to him. The space felt intimate and charged. I could smell his clean soap and see the slight stubble on his jaw.
"What I'm about to show you is protected by twelve patents and three legal agreements you signed digitally yesterday before getting in the car," he said, his tone serious. "This is Orion Global's future. That's why you're here."
He tapped a command. The star charts and readings vanished, replaced by a complex, multi-layered wave pattern. It pulsed with a strange, uneven rhythm. It was beautiful and completely alien.
"This," he said, gazing at the shimmering pattern, "is the mystery."
I leaned in, my scientific mind instantly hooked, everything else fading away. "What am I looking at? The pattern is… not like any deep-space signal I've seen. Too organized to be random cosmic noise but too messy to be a deliberate message."
"Exactly," he said, excitement creeping into his voice. He was pleased. "It's not from one source. It's everywhere. A background harmony we've found woven into certain high-energy quantum fields. It's a fingerprint."
"A fingerprint of what?"
"That," he said, turning those storm-gray eyes on me, "is the question. Your college paper proposed a way to detect unique quantum information loss in high-gravity events. I think your method is the key to decoding this. To determine what this fingerprint is and what left it."
He gave me access. With a few keystrokes, the entire observatory's terabytes of raw data, analysis tools, and processing power that probably rivaled a small country were mine to control. It was the most powerful intellectual playground imaginable.
For the next few hours, I dived into work. The world outside the glass, the strange luxury of my room, and the mystery of the man beside me all disappeared. There was only the puzzle. The beautiful, impossible puzzle. I ran tests, adjusted parameters based on my thesis, and asked the system questions I'd only dreamed of exploring.
Cassian worked beside me, a quiet, focused presence. He stayed close, watching my screens and following my logic. Sometimes, he'd point to a data point, his finger brushing near mine on the console. "There. The spike matches your prediction."
Each time, a tiny electric shock went through me. It was the thrill of being understood completely. He didn't just pay for my ideas; he grasped them instantly.
During one test, a warning flag popped up. "That's weird," I said, more to myself.
"What is it?" he asked immediately.
"The system is using a huge amount of processing power for a secondary server bank. It's not related to my analysis. It's like there's another program running, stealing resources. Something biological or chemical. Look at these protein-folding programs..."
I pulled up the resource map, tracing the lines of code. For a split second, I saw it. A project name: Project Phoenix. Next to it was a name: Dr. L. Evans.
Cassian's hand moved quickly. His fingers closed over mine on the console, not roughly, but with firm pressure. He quickly entered a command, and the resource map vanished, replaced by our star charts.
The contact sent a shock through me. His skin was warm. My heart pounded.
"A leftover project," he said, his voice calm, but his grip on my hand was tense. "Medical research. A side hobby. It sometimes hogs processing power. I'll have Robert give telescope systems priority." He slowly released my hand. The spot where his skin had touched mine felt burned.
The moment broke, but the air was thick with what had just happened. He'd shut me down. He'd touched me to do it. And the name Dr. Evans echoed in the sudden quiet.
"I… I should probably take a break," I said, my voice shaky. "Process the data."
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Of course. The mind needs time to absorb. Explore the house. The library has every book you could possibly need. Your access is complete."
Except for that one server, I thought. Except for Project Phoenix.
I stood, my legs feeling unsteady. "Thanks."
I practically ran from the telescope room, the ghost of his touch still burning on my hand. My mind spun, caught between the intellectual high of the work and the cold splash of reality. Protein folding? Medical research? What did that have to do with quantum astrophysics?
I found the library. It was another large room, all dark wood and leather, smelling of old paper and polish. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books, both ancient leather volumes and modern scientific journals. A scholar's dream.
I ran my fingers along the book spines, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I turned a corner into a quieter section and froze.
It was a reading area, and on the small table next to a leather chair sat a framed photograph.
It was a picture of Cassian. He looked younger, his smile easy and unburdened. His arm wrapped around a woman with bright red hair and a joyful, beautiful face. She looked up at him with such open, loving adoration that it made my chest ache. They looked radiant.
I'd never seen a picture of him smiling like that. I'd never seen any personal items in the house. It was as sterile as a hospital.
But here it was. A hidden, painful piece of him.
My eyes dropped to the few other items on the table. A small, elegant vase. And next to it, a prescription bottle. The label faced away from me.
A cold knot twisted in my stomach. I shouldn't. It was a huge invasion of privacy.
But the memory of his hand on mine, his quick, panicked command, pushed me closer. I stepped forward and gently turned the bottle.
The name on the label was Isla Orion.
The prescription was for a powerful, specialized immune-suppressing drug. Medicine for someone very, very sick.
I jerked my hand back as if the bottle had burned me. Isla. His wife? She was sick. That's the painful secret in his eyes. That was the "problem that shouldn't exist."
My mind, trained to find patterns, began connecting dots with terrifying speed. Medical research. Dr. Evans. The biological server drain. The desperate, lonely look I'd seen on the deck.
He wasn't just trying to decode a cosmic mystery.
He was trying to save her.
And I, with my specific thesis and unique brain, was somehow part of that plan. That thought should have made me feel sorry for him. It should have made him seem more human.
But all I felt was a new, deeper layer of ice-cold fear. Because when a man with unlimited money and nothing left to lose becomes desperate, there's no telling what lines he'll cross.
Or who he'll use to get what he wants.