The drive to Thorne Manor was a silent and exhausting lesson in Darian Thorne's control. The black SUV felt like a moving vault, with Darian as its silent, watchful guard. They arrived at dawn at a sprawling Gothic nightmare wrapped in mist. Thorne Manor perched on a jagged cliff, a monument to architectural excess and decay. Its dark granite walls cried moss, and its windows resembled empty, judgmental eyes.
The isolation was complete. The only road was a private, mile-long drive, and the manor was surrounded by thick woods and a low, crumbling stone wall.
"You'll be staying in the West Wing guest apartments," Darian said, leading her through the vast, dust-covered interior. The air inside felt cold and heavy, tasting of mildew and old secrets. "The entire East Wing, including my study, is under construction for security upgrades. You have one job: assess the entire structure for restoration potential, and find any hidden vaults, ledgers, or compartments linked to Caspian Thorne and the architect, Isolde."
Elara surveyed the massive scope of work ahead. "This isn't a task for one person, Mr. Thorne. This is a five-year project for a team of specialists."
"Then you have five years of work," he replied, stopping in the central atrium. "But secrecy is crucial. Only my head of security, Victor, and a few maintenance staff will know you're here. If you leave the grounds, the deal is off."
As she settled into the surprisingly well-kept guest quarters, Darian left her with piles of archival boxes from Thorne Industries—old blueprints, estate records, and microfiche about the 1940s structural collapse.
The name Isolde replayed in her mind. Elara took a moment alone and pulled out the locket she wore. It was her only keepsake from her grandmother, who never talked about where the necklace came from or the single initial engraved on its back: I. Was it possible? A ridiculous coincidence. She tucked it away and forced herself to focus on her work.
For the next three days, Elara worked non-stop, moving through the dusty halls and tracing the veins of the house. Darian's presence was unsettling and inconsistent. He would show up unexpectedly, always silent, watching her work with intense focus, then retreat to his secure East Wing study.
On the fourth evening, while reviewing the original blueprints for the manor's massive library, Elara noticed something odd. The blueprints showed a nine-foot ceiling for the room below, but the library itself was ten feet tall. A phantom foot of space.
Trusting her instincts, she found the access panel in the large mahogany shelving unit. Behind it was a false wall and a low, heavy wrought-iron door—a hidden room.
She used a small, specialized pry bar to open the door, revealing a tiny, cramped space—clearly the architect's private study. Inside, the air was thick and undisturbed for eighty years. There was a single desk, a draftsman's lamp, and a sealed trunk.
Just as Elara was about to check the trunk, a voice broke the manor's silence.
"A pity, Ms. Vance. I was hoping Darian would be the one to find this."
Elara whipped around. In the library entrance, illuminated by the amber glow of the setting sun, stood a stunningly elegant woman. Her couture outfit and cold demeanor radiated a predatory curiosity.
"And you are?" Elara asked, stepping protectively in front of the hidden room.
"Seraphina Voss," the woman replied, stepping closer. "Darian's former fiancée and the current CEO of Voss Capital. We were supposed to merge companies—and families—until Darian abruptly canceled the entire deal a week ago. I find it fascinating that he broke an engagement worth billions to spend his days with a pretty architectural scavenger."
"I'm his restorer. He's trying to save his family history," Elara stated, trying to sound more confident than she actually felt.
Seraphina laughed, her tone cold and brittle. "Darian Thorne doesn't save anything, darling. He destroys things that remind him of failure. And this house? It's a mausoleum for his mother's death." She drew even closer, her perfume overwhelming. "He hired you to find something, not to restore it. If you find it, you'll witness his last secret. I suggest you bring it to me first. You're disposable. I am not."
Suddenly, the library door swung open again, and Darian walked in, his face dark with anger. "Seraphina. Get out. Now."
"Such hospitality, Darian," she said, giving him a tight, dangerous smile. "I was just making sure your new employee understood the terms of her contract. I'll see you at the Thorne Industries board meeting on Friday. Try not to miss it." She brushed past him, leaving a heavy scent of danger and expensive perfume behind.
Once she was gone, Darian's tense posture relaxed. He moved past Elara and, without a word, went straight to the desk in the hidden room. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook.
"It's the architect's diary," he said, his voice flat. He flipped through the pages and stopped at a specific entry. "Isolde was an apprentice architect. My mother, before she married, was her closest friend. They were obsessed with this house. When the West Wing collapsed and killed my mother, people blamed Isolde's poor planning. She vanished the next day. The scandal nearly ruined my father. He's always insisted it was a tragic accident."
He looked at the open diary, his eyes filled with pain. "I hate this house, Elara. I was a child that day. I was supposed to be playing in the West Wing, but my mother sent me away to fetch a toy. That's why restoring this place matters so much. I need to know the truth. I need to find out if it was an accident or if my father covered up something darker."
It was the most vulnerable Elara had ever seen him. He was a man haunted by a dead parent and a lifetime of doubt. He placed the diary on the desk. "Read it. Tell me what you find." Then he turned and left, retreating back to his solitude in the East Wing and leaving her alone with the architect's voice.
Elara opened the diary. The handwriting was delicate yet firm. She flipped through weeks of mundane entries about stress calculations and material choices until she found the last entry, dated the day after the collapse—the day Isolde supposedly disappeared.
November 14th, 1943. I cannot tell Darian's mother the truth now. It's too late for her, but I must expose his father. He rigged the supports, not Isolde. He saw me recording the structural damage. I managed to lock the ledger in the vault beneath The Harrington before escaping. I am alone now...
Elara blinked. The diary continued. Isolde had not vanished after the collapse; she had run away. And the entry didn't end there. The last paragraph, hastily scribbled and clearly added much later, showed recent penmanship, perhaps from the last year.
...I am alone now, but I have a witness. I found him in the woods. He says his name is Jasper. He claims he saw everything and will help me retrieve the ledger. I will meet him tomorrow by the cliff's edge, near the old quarry road. With Jasper's help, I can finally reveal what Darian's father did.
Elara stared at the entry. Isolde, the supposedly dead architect, had an accomplice named Jasper after the collapse. This changed everything.
Suddenly, a heavy wooden shelf in the hidden room shifted. Elara jumped back, realizing the door had quietly shut, locking her in the cramped space. She pounded on the thick iron, but it was solid. Then, beneath the desk, a small, red LED light blinked on, shining directly at her face. She wasn't just trapped; the room had been bugged. Whoever locked her in had deliberately left her with the explosive diary entry—a perfect message.