Chapter 7

The second the front door clicked shut behind Rowan, the penthouse fell into a heavy, breath‑holding silence. Caelum did not move for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway, like he expected Rowan to slip back inside and take back every dangerous word he’d said. My palm still tingled where his fingers had gripped mine, leftover heat from that brief, shaky kiss earlier.

“Alone,” Caelum murmured, repeating Rowan’s warning like it was a puzzle piece that refused to fit. “He told me to come alone. But he also said Diana’s eyes are everywhere.”

I crossed to the window and peered down at the street far below. A dark sedan idled near the curb, not moving, not pulling away. My stomach tightened. “Someone’s watching us right now. What if that’s her surveillance team?”

He stepped beside me, quiet, and followed my line of sight. “Could be. Could also be the mystery messenger’s people. We don’t know who is who anymore.” He dragged a hand through his dark hair, shoulders tight with exhaustion. “If I go to the boathouse by myself, Diana could trap me there. Make it look like I ran from the review, or worse — stage an accident just like my father’s.”

My throat went dry. That fear hung between us, thick and cold. “Then I’m coming with you. We said we wouldn’t keep secrets or split up when things turn dangerous.”

He glanced toward me, grey eyes softening with conflict. “Zara, he explicitly said alone. If he sees both of us, he might panic and vanish before he tells us anything about that night.”

“Or,” I countered, “he only said that because Diana expects you to obey her rules. What if he’s secretly hoping you won’t go alone? What if he’s scared to speak unless there’s someone there who isn’t Vance blood?”

Caelum paused, considering. He walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up his phone, calling Ms. Hale. Her voice was crisp and steady on the speaker.

“Ms. Hale, can you pull up old case notes surrounding my father’s fatal drive? Look specifically for any witness statement mentioning a second vehicle or a young male bystander.”

There was a short pause. “I have tried accessing those files many times, sir. They were sealed shortly after the investigation closed. However… there is one retired traffic officer who sent an anonymous email three months ago offering to talk, but only under strict privacy conditions. I did not forward it earlier because I thought it might be a hoax.”

My heart jumped. “Three months ago? That’s around the time those first strange messages started arriving.”

Caelum’s jaw hardened. “Keep reaching out to that officer. Do not mention our plan tonight. And please arrange a discrete backup unit — former security staff we trust, not regular company guards. Tell them to position themselves half‑a‑mile from the riverside boathouse, no lights on.”

“Understood. I will report any reply immediately.” The line went quiet.

After he hung up, we moved into the living room to run through what we knew. I scribbled notes on a notepad: Diana present the night of the crash; Rowan a witness; sealed police records; unknown messenger feeding us clues; upcoming board review only five days away. Every line felt like a loose thread that could unravel everything.

Halfway through mapping the timeline, my phone buzzed. Another unknown‑number text: Do not trust Rowan entirely. He knows part of the truth, but he is also hiding his own secret. Remember: Diana did not act alone that night.

Caelum leaned over to read it, his breath warm near my shoulder. For a heartbeat the tension softened; I remembered the way he’d pulled back after our earlier kiss, apologetic, scared of letting closeness distract us. He looked down at my lips, then quickly away again. “We can’t afford to get distracted right now,” he whispered, more to himself than me. I nodded, even though my chest ached.

Late afternoon slipped into a damp, mist‑heavy evening. We changed into dark, plain clothes — no expensive jackets, nothing that screamed billionaire and wife. Before we headed out, Caelum paused beside the mantel where I’d set my father’s photograph. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Scared,” I admitted. “But also… relieved. For the first time since I walked into Vance Tower, it feels like we might actually find real answers.”

We took an unmarked car Ms. Hale had arranged, not the usual limousine. Fog curled over the river as we drew near, turning the old wooden boathouse into a shadowy silhouette. The backup team stayed far back as planned. Caelum told the driver to park around a bend; we walked the rest of the way side‑by‑side, our hands brushing now and then but not fully clasped, watching every dark corner.

The boathouse door stood slightly ajar. Dim yellow light seeped through the crack.

“Rowan?” Caelum called softly, pushing it open.

Inside, the space smelled of damp wood and old motor oil. A single flickering bulb hung overhead — but Rowan was not there. Instead, a folded sheet of paper lay on a rusted workbench. Caelum picked it up, unfolded it. His face went pale.

I can’t speak here. She found out I planned to meet you. There is a hidden safety‑deposit box at Central Bank, number 417. Key is behind the loose brick near the boathouse dock. Inside is everything I saw that night — photos, notes. Be careful. Someone else has been hunting those files too. — R

Before we could say another word, distant sirens wailed through the fog, growing rapidly louder.

Caelum grabbed my wrist. “We need to go — now. That’s not a coincidence.”

We rushed back toward the car, fog swallowing our footsteps, wondering: had Diana sent the police? Or had the mystery messenger just set another trap? And what terrible truth waited inside box 417?