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TWENTY-FOUR: Shadows and Secrets

Author: Rovelt Vell
last update Petsa ng paglalathala: 2026-07-26 04:26:52

Aria’s POV

Romanov set the note down beside the photograph, both of them side by side on his desk like evidence in a trial only he understood the stakes of.

“You recognize him,” he said, watching my face rather than the picture.

“From my father’s birthday two years ago.” I forced the memory into focus, sharpening details I hadn’t thought about in months. “He was introduced to me briefly. My father shook his hand as the man mattered more than anyone else in the room.”

“Did you catch a
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  • THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE   ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN

    Aria’s POV Constance came to us the following morning, before either of us had finished breakfast, her composure carrying a different quality than I’d seen from her before, something resolved rather than merely careful. “I think you’ve found the photograph by now,” she said, standing in the doorway of the breakfast room. “I heard Dmitri moving around the house last night. I assume that means it’s time.” Romanov set down his coffee slowly. “Sit,” he said. “Please.” Constance settled into the chair across from us, her hands folded in her lap the same way they always were, though something in her posture had shifted, the careful armor she usually wore finally loosening. “I promised you the truth,” she said. “I intend to keep that promise now, completely, without the careful edges I’ve been giving you until this point.” “We’re listening,” I said. Constance took a breath, steadying herself visibly before she began. “The man in that photograph,” she said, “the fourth founder, the on

  • THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE   ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN

    Aria’s POV Dmitri called us both into the study just after midnight, his voice carrying an urgency that pulled me out of bed before I’d even finished processing what he’d said over the phone. “I found something in the photograph,” he said, the moment we walked through the door. “The one from the storage crate. The three men in formal dress.” “The one hanging in the east hallway,” Romanov said, remembering immediately. “You’ve seen that photograph a thousand times, you said.” “I have,” Romanov agreed. “But I’ve never looked at the original this closely before. The version in the hallway has been reframed at some point, cropped slightly differently than the original print Dmitri pulled from the crate.” Dmitri pulled up both images side by side on his laptop screen, the hallway version and the original photograph from Box 4471. “Look at the edges,” he said. “The hallway version cuts off about two inches on the right side compared to the original.” I leaned in, studying the differe

  • THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE   ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN

    Aria’s POV Dmitri found something the following afternoon that shifted the entire shape of what we thought we understood about Constance, though not in the direction any of us expected. “I’ve been tracing her finances,” he said, waving us both into the study with an urgency that told me whatever he’d found mattered considerably more than routine progress. “Not because I think she’s being paid by the Correction. Something about the pattern never fit that theory properly.” “What did you find instead?” Romanov asked. Dmitri pulled up a series of transactions on his laptop, spanning back further than I expected, the dates stretching across nearly two decades. “Regular deposits,” he said. “Consistent, modest amounts, arriving every few months for years. Not enough to raise obvious suspicion if you weren’t specifically looking for a pattern. But consistent enough that it clearly wasn’t random.” “From where?” I asked. “That’s the interesting part,” Dmitri said. “Not from the Correctio

  • THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE   ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

    Aria’s POV Constance agreed to meet us in the small sitting room off the west hallway, a space she’d chosen herself when Romanov asked if she had time to talk, something in her tone suggesting she already understood this wouldn’t be an ordinary conversation. She sat across from us with her usual composed posture, hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for one of us to begin. If she felt any anxiety about being summoned this way, nothing in her expression revealed it. “You wanted to speak with me,” she said finally, when neither of us started right away. “We did,” Romanov said. “There are some questions we need to ask you. About your history with this family.” “I assumed as much,” Constance said, something careful entering her voice, though her composure remained otherwise perfectly intact. “Dmitri’s been unusually thorough these past few days. I noticed.” “Then you understand why we’re here,” I said. “I have a guess,” Constance said. “Whether my guess is correct remains to be

  • THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE   ONE HUNDRED TWELVE

    Aria’s POV I spent the following day doing something I hadn’t expected to find myself doing again so soon: quietly reexamining someone I’d trusted, searching every memory for cracks I might have missed the first time through. Constance behaved exactly as she always had. She joined us for meals, offered calm, practical advice whenever Romanov’s business concerns required her particular expertise, moved through the estate with the same unhurried competence she’d carried since long before I’d arrived. If she knew anything about Dmitri’s discovery, nothing in her demeanor betrayed it. That, more than anything, unsettled me most. I found myself replaying the discovery she’d made weeks earlier, the moment she’d noticed the discrepancy in the household accounts that first pointed our entire investigation toward the Correction’s financial patterns. At the time, it had felt like fortunate timing, sharp attention meeting a problem that happened to matter enormously. Now, sitting with Dmitr

  • THE BILLIONAIRE'S STAND-IN BRIDE   ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

    Aria’s POV Four days into the week the letter had given us, Dmitri still hadn’t slept properly. I hadn’t stopped thinking about the letter either. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the careful handwriting again, the same careful phrasing circling back through my mind at odd moments throughout the day. But waiting wouldn’t give us answers on its own. Dmitri had promised to spend every remaining day before the meeting digging through the past, and that morning he was exactly where I’d expected, buried beneath stacks of printouts in the study, his eyes rimmed with the particular exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. “You’ve been at this all night,” I said. “I couldn’t stop,” Dmitri admitted. “Once I started cross-referencing access logs against historical records, I kept finding threads I couldn’t just set aside until morning.” “What kind of threads?” I asked. Dmitri hesitated, something careful entering his expression that I’d learned to recognize whenever he

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