Clara arrived on a Thursday morning without any warning at all. The doorbell rang while Evelyn was still in her robe, sipping coffee she had finally decided to drink because refusing it felt more like punishing herself than punishing Lucien. Mrs. Hargrove answered the door and a moment later a young woman stepped into the foyer carrying a small leather satchel and wearing a soft gray coat that looked like it had seen too many rainy seasons in Paris.
Clara Vale was twenty five. Dark hair like her brother's but longer and less severe. Eyes that carried a quiet sadness Evelyn recognized immediately because she saw it in the mirror every day. She smiled when she saw Evelyn and crossed the marble floor without hesitation, pulling her into a hug that felt surprisingly warm and real.
"I am so glad he finally found someone," Clara whispered against Evelyn's shoulder.
Evelyn froze for half a second before patting Clara's back awkwardly. "It is… complicated."
Clara pulled back and laughed softly, the sound light but tinged with something older. "Everything with Lucien is complicated. That is why I like you already. You look like someone who understands complicated."
They spent the afternoon in the garden even though the sky threatened more rain. Clara talked about painting. About the small studio she kept in a narrow street near Montmartre where the light came in just right in the late afternoons. About how she missed the smell of oil paint on canvas and turpentine on her fingers. Evelyn listened and felt something dangerous stir inside her chest. Something close to warmth. Something close to friendship. She had not expected that.
Lucien watched from the terrace the whole time. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. When Clara waved at him he lifted a hand in return but did not smile. He never smiled much anyway.
That evening an anonymous message arrived on Evelyn's phone. She still did not know how it got past the security systems Lucien had installed. The notification popped up while she was changing for dinner.
I know what Marcus did.
Help me expose him.
Freedom awaits.
—V
Victor Hale.
Her stomach dropped. She stared at the screen for a long moment then deleted the message immediately. But the words stayed burned behind her eyelids.
Victor Hale had been Lucien's mentor once. Business partner. Almost a second father after Marcus stepped back from day to day operations. Then something had broken between them. No one talked about it. Not in public. Not even in the quiet corners of boardroom gossip. But the fracture was there. Deep. Old. And apparently still bleeding.
Lucien grew restless in the days that followed. More meetings in the city. Sudden trips to Paris then Zurich then Berlin. When he was home he paced like a man who could not sit still in his own skin. He came to bed late. Left early. When he touched her now it was with a kind of urgency that felt desperate rather than possessive.
One night he found her in the library reading an old ledger she had pulled from the bottom shelf. Dust clung to her fingers.
"What are you reading?" he asked from the doorway.
"Old contracts." She closed the book slowly. "Your father's work mostly."
His jaw tightened. "Stay away from that."
"Why?"
"Because some truths destroy people."
She stood up. "I am not afraid of truth."
He crossed the room in three strides. "You should be."
The argument escalated quickly. Words turned sharp. Accusations flew like knives. He accused her of digging where she did not belong. She accused him of hiding behind walls he had built himself.
He pinned her against the bookshelves. Breath ragged. Eyes dark with something that looked like anger and hunger all mixed together.
"You think you can save me?" he growled.
"I think you want to be saved."
He kissed her then. Fiercer than before. More consuming. Hands sliding under her shirt. Mouth on her neck. They did not stop at kisses that time.
Afterward they lay tangled in sheets on the library sofa. Sweat cooling on their skin. Breathing hard. The fire in the grate had burned down to embers.
She whispered against his neck. "Trust me."
He buried his face in her hair. "I am trying."
She believed him in that moment. Or wanted to.
The messages from Victor kept coming. Each one more detailed. More damning. Photos of Marcus meeting men in dark coats in back rooms of restaurants no one respectable went to. Bank transfers routed through three different countries. A grainy image of a car wreck that did not look accidental at all. The timestamp on the photo matched the night Lucien's mother had died.
Evelyn showed the latest one to Isabel one afternoon when Lucien was in Geneva for a board meeting. Isabel was Lucien's assistant. Sharp. Discreet. More perceptive than most people gave her credit for.
Isabel looked at the screen and her face went pale. "I will look into it," she said quietly. "Quietly."
Evelyn nodded. She did not trust Isabel completely. But she trusted her more than she trusted anyone else in this house.
Lucien grew suspicious. He watched her more closely. Asked questions she could not answer truthfully without lying outright. When he came home from Geneva he found her in the study staring at an old photograph she had found in a drawer. Lucien as a boy. His mother smiling beside him. Marcus in the background looking away.
He took the photo from her hand gently. "Where did you find this?"
"In a drawer."
He set it down carefully. "Some things are better left alone."
She looked at him. "Your mother did not die in an accident."
His eyes darkened. "Do not."
"She knew something. About Marcus. About the company. About the explosion."
He turned away. "Stop."
"I cannot stop. Not when I know the truth is right here."
He spun back. "You think you know the truth? You think you can walk in here and unravel everything I have spent years protecting?"
"I think you have been protecting the wrong person."
The silence that followed was loud.
He left the room without another word.
That night he did not come to her bed.
Evelyn lay awake listening to the house breathe around her.
Somewhere in the east wing the sound came again. Soft. Broken. A woman's voice pleading for something she could not quite make out.
Evelyn sat up in the dark.
The house was not just full of secrets.
It was full of pain.
And the longer she stayed the more she felt it seeping into her own skin.
She wondered how much longer she could pretend she was not drowning in it.