Chapter 3 Buried Secret

I couldn’t stop thinking about the blackmail text in my dark room. Every image of Darian and me outside the Wolfe Hotel—his hand possessively on my waist, my head tilted towards, with a smile and a vulnerability I now despise—felt like a ticking bomb ready to annihilate the Reyes legacy.

My father’s voice echoed in my head, cold and direct: "Maria, reputation is everything, never let it slip; protect it at all costs." My lips felt cold even though the room was warm.

"Do as I say, or they go on air." The anonymous demand played over and over in my mind.

"Instructions will come."

"What do they want?" I didn’t know whether to stay still or freak out.

I walked silently on the carpet, my bare feet barely making a sound and my nails digging into my hands. My father, Hector Reyes, hated weakness. He’d get rid of me if he had to.

How about Naomi’s fierce loyalty? That's a liability. She’d storm the gates of hell for me, making the scandal three times worse. Only one person shared the frame in those damning photos—only one person stood to lose as much, although differently: Darian. Just hearing his name sent a chilling discomfort through me. Contacting him felt like insanity, surrendering to the problem I needed to control. Yet, the silence was choking me.

Another text buzzed on my cell phone. It read: "Reyes Charity Gala. Friday. 9 PM. Hector’s office safe. File: 'Project Phoenix'. Bring it to the east garden fountain by 10 pm. Fail, and the world sees the Reyes whore fucking the enemy, you wouldn't want to see more pictures."

My veins filled with cold blood. I could blame Naomi for the previous night, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t exciting. The Reyes Charity Gala, my father’s carefully planned event, to showcase the power and philanthropy of the Reyes family—this was the ultimate stage for our humiliation.

Project Phoenix? I didn’t know what that was. But the safe? I knew exactly where it was. Getting into that room is hard enough, and the safe is nearly impossible. Unless my father was preoccupied, playing host.

The office was in the mansion’s silent west wing. If I messed up, they would see everything, the ruin of everything my father built, and my own exile. The choice wasn’t a choice anymore. I had to try; not just try—I had to succeed.

The gala filled the mansion with noise and people. I walked through the crowd, faking a smile. Naomi suddenly caught my arm.

"Maria! Stop looking like you’re heading to a funeral. Smile! Chat! That neurosurgeon over there keeps glancing your way…"

Her enthusiasm hit me like a wave. I squeezed her hand, forcing some lightness into my voice. "I’m fine, Naomi, just a headache. Can you fill in for me?" I asked, "I need some air."

She frowned. “You always say that.” Then she left, saying, “Have fun, Dr. Reyes.”

My heart raced like hell. I sneaked through a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced Reyes ancestors. Their painted eyes seemed to follow me, judging my every step.

The gala sounds got quiet as I reached the west wing, replaced by the unsettling silence. My father’s office door loomed ahead. It had a special one-way glass. From the hallway, it reflected the dim corridor like a dark mirror. Inside, I knew he could see anyone approaching long before they reached the door.

The biometric scanner glowed faintly beside the handle. I pressed my thumb against the cool glass. It beeped softly and a green light appeared. I was washed with relief. He hadn’t changed the access.

Inside, the air was still and smelled of leather and old money. The moonlight streamed through the tall windows, painting silver stripes on the Persian rug.

The safe was exactly where I remembered—embedded in the wall behind the desk. Modern, sleek, impenetrable. My father’s thumbprint. His retinal scan. I didn’t have the keys. Fear bubbled up. “Think, Maria, think!” I looked at the desk drawer. It was locked too. The old drawer, where he kept things before the safe. Maybe… just maybe… a clue? A bypass?

Desperately, I opened my tiny clutch, pulling out a hairpin that Naomi insisted I carry “for emergencies.” My hands shook violently as I bent the metal, probing the antique lock, and clicked! The drawer slid open. "Bless you, Naomi!" With relief.

There were no keys, no clues inside. Instead, a thick, dusty folder lay atop scattered papers. It wasn’t "Project Phoenix." The label, handwritten in my father’s script, took my breath away: "Eleanor Wolfe & Son - Contingencies."

Eleanor, Darian’s mother, was someone I recognized in my oldest memories. Driven to suicide. The tragedy of Hector was buried.

Driven by a compulsion deeper than blackmail, deeper than fear, I lifted the folder. It felt heavy with secrets. I opened it. Photographs spilled onto the desk—not corporate documents, but personal ones.

A young woman, beautiful and vibrant, with hazel soft eyes—Eleanor, smiling in a sun-drenched garden. Later, she was pregnant, looking sad and lost. And him. A boy. Darian. My breath hitched. Here he was, maybe eight or nine, standing beside a somber Eleanor.

Another photo: a teenager with a bruised face and scraped knuckles staring defiantly at the camera, a flicker of the predatory intensity I recognized in him. School reports noted "disciplinary issues," "withdrawn," and "potential for violence." Medical records showed malnutrition and listed a broken arm at twelve as a "fall," suspiciously frequent.

Then, the coroner’s report: Eleanor Wolfe. Cause of Death: Suicide. Method: Overdose. Attached was a grainy photocopy of a handwritten note. It wasn’t Eleanor’s. It was my father's, written in cold and precise instructions to a private investigator: “Ensure the Wolfe boy is placed in the state system. Cut all ties. Monitor discreetly. Report any attempts to contact the Reyes family.”

I gasp for air. This was calculated cruelty. What was Hector's relationship with Eleanor and Darian? Throwing a grieving, damaged child into the abyss, burying him. The image of young Darian, bruised and defiant, superimposed itself over the man who had looked at me with such devastating hunger. His scars were not just physical; they were etched deep by the man whose legacy I was desperately trying to protect.

The plot for revenge wasn’t just about ambition; it was about survival, forged from rage and abandonment. A wave of crushing empathy washed over me, fierce and unexpected, momentarily overwhelming my own terror. I traced the photo of the bruised boy with my trembling finger.

"Oh, Darian. What did he do to you?"

A shadow moved in my peripheral vision. My head snapped toward the office door—the one-way glass. From the inside, it was transparent. A figure strode purposefully down the dimly lit corridor toward the office. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with the unmistakable, controlled authority of my father, Hector Reyes. He was maybe twenty feet away, his face set in its usual impassive mask, eyes fixed forward—on the office, on me.

Time didn’t freeze; it accelerated into pure, blinding terror. "He sees me, he knows." The damning evidence was sprawled across his desk like an accusation: the folder gaping open, the photos of Eleanor and young Darian, the coroner's report, and his own incriminating note.

"Move!" I thought. I grabbed everything, stuffing it back sloppily and quickly. The papers wrinkled as I shoved them in—caring only about concealment, not order. The medical records, the school report, the notes! I jammed them in, and the coroner’s report fluttered to the floor. I snatched it up, stuffing it back into the folder just as he reached the door. His hand was already on the handle.

I slammed the folder shut and shoved it back into the open drawer, but my elbow hit a heavy paperweight. It almost fell, but I caught it, and my heart was pounding heavily. I shoved it aside and slammed the desk drawer so loudly that it echoed in the room. The lock! I locked it with the hairpin.

Just as the door opened, I spun around, leaning against the front of the desk, trying to appear casual, trying to breathe. My chest felt like it was bound in iron bands. The door swung open, framing him in the doorway. Light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.

He stepped fully into the room. He looked at the desk, the drawer, then me, standing stiff and pale, my hands shaking behind me. He stood there, saying nothing. The silence felt thick. My heartbeat was all I could hear. His eyes moved over the room, then back to me. Did he see how scared I was? The sweat on my face? Or did I hide it just enough?

"Maria," he said, his voice deceptively calm, a low rumble in the stillness. "What are you doing in here?"