5.

CHAPTER FIVE

MIKA'S POV

"What are you talking about?"

I stepped forward, my gaze moving between Dad and Kendrick.

Kendrick glanced at Dad, looking reluctant to continue without his permission. Dad forced a smile, but it did little to hide the confusion that had spread across his face the moment Kendrick mentioned my mother's possible involvement.

What I couldn't understand was why she would want me dead.

I tilted my head, trying to make sense of it. Was I even the target, or had I simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

"It's nothing serious, Mika. Just a hunch." Dad dismissed the matter, slipping his hands into his pockets as if he were completely unfazed.

But I knew better.

I had seen the look on his face. Whatever Kendrick had told him, it had shaken him, and he was doing a terrible job of pretending otherwise.

"Nothing serious?" I repeated, my voice rising. "Kendrick walked in here looking anxious and practically trembling. You're telling me there's nothing behind all this except a hunch?"

Dad dragged a hand down his face before turning to Kendrick and motioning for him to continue.

Kendrick hesitated, then looked at me.

"This information came from one of our undercover spies," he explained. "We haven't confirmed whether it's authentic yet."

His gaze dropped to the floor, and something about his reluctance made my stomach tighten.

"We don't have any solid evidence," he added.

"Then we need to investigate it immediately." I took another step forward. "If my mother has something to do with these attacks, we can't afford to sit around waiting for someone else to get hurt."

Dad raised a hand, stopping me before I could say anything else.

"That's for my men to handle, Mika. You should go to your room. You've had a long day."

My jaw tightened.

Of course.

The moment a conversation involved something important, I was suddenly too young, too inexperienced, or too exhausted to be included. He could keep me in the dark about my own life and expect me to accept it without question.

My fingers brushed against the identification card tucked inside my jacket pocket.

Claire Xavier.

The name flashed through my mind.

I had discovered something strange about Elsa's belongings, and I still hadn't decided what to do with the information. Should I tell Dad about the identity on the card, or keep it to myself and confront Elsa when I had more answers?

After a moment's thought, I turned back to him.

"We need to talk tonight at dinner."

Dad looked at me, his expression unreadable.

"I mean it," I continued before he could dismiss me again. "I can't keep pretending everything is fine when people are trying to kill me. And don't shut me out like you always do."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Dad nodded toward the door, silently telling me the conversation was over.

I let out a frustrated breath. One more second in that room, and I might have said something I would regret.

Without another word, I turned and stormed out, my heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst through my chest.

Once I was outside, I pulled out my phone and headed toward the car waiting to take me home.

I climbed into the back seat and shut the door, finally allowing myself to breathe. My eyes felt heavy, and my entire body seemed to have turned to jelly. Between the attack, Elsa's injury, and the disturbing possibility that my mother was involved, I barely had the energy to think.

I leaned back against the seat.

I would only close my eyes for a moment.

The next thing I knew, someone was shaking my shoulder.

"Miss Mika?"

I blinked several times, struggling to wake up.

One of the guards stood beside the open car door, waiting for me to get out. Beyond him, the sky had darkened, and the last traces of daylight had disappeared behind the horizon.

How long had I been asleep?

I rubbed my face and stepped out of the car, heading inside. All I wanted was a shower and a few minutes to myself.

Unfortunately, peace was the last thing on my mind.

Even after changing out of my clothes and washing away the exhaustion of the day, I couldn't stop thinking about Elsa.

Or the name on her identification card.

Claire Xavier.

I should have stayed away from her room. I knew that very well.

But knowing better had never stopped me from doing something stupid.

Elsa's room was only a few doors away from mine.

Dad had moved her back to the mansion while I slept. She was supposed to be resting in the downstairs infirmary under a nurse's watch, which meant her own room should have been empty.

After making sure the corridor was clear, I quietly pushed her door open and slipped inside, closing it carefully behind me.

I had already made up my mind while showering and getting dressed. I wasn't going to confront Elsa about the inconsistencies in her identity. Not yet.

First, I needed to investigate her myself.

I wanted to know who she really was, what she was hiding, and why my father considered her so valuable. Only then would I decide whether to confront her.

If I questioned her now, she might lie to my face, and I would be no closer to the truth.

I glanced around the room.

It was much tidier than I had expected. Her bed was neatly made, her shoes were arranged in a straight line, and not a single piece of clothing had been left lying around.

Everything had its place.

It was almost as if she had trained herself never to leave anything behind.

I approached the wardrobe and opened it carefully. Her clothes hung in neat rows, leaving little room for anything else. I pushed a few aside, running my hands along the shelves and checking the corners for anything that looked out of place.

Nothing.

Except for a ballpoint pen that didn't work.

I picked it up, pressed the tip against my palm, and tried it once before dropping it back where I had found it.

What kind of person kept a useless pen?

Then again, considering how carefully Elsa arranged everything, perhaps she had simply forgotten it was there.

I closed the wardrobe and crouched beside the bed, peering underneath.

Dust.

That was all I found.

Suppressing a groan, I straightened and moved toward the drawer beside her nightstand.

I pulled it open.

Inside were a few loose hairpins, a folded receipt, and some other small items that told me absolutely nothing about her. I picked up the receipt and examined it, hoping to find a name or an address, but there was nothing useful.

I was about to put it back when I noticed a small photograph tucked beneath the other items.

I pulled it out carefully.

It showed a much younger Elsa standing beside an older man in a dark suit. She looked about five or six, with a bright smile and one hand wrapped around the man's arm. He stood beside her with one hand resting on her shoulder, his expression serious despite the little girl's obvious excitement.

I stared at the photograph.

Who was he?

Her father?

An uncle?

Someone else entirely?

I turned the photograph over, but there was nothing written on the back. No date, no name, no clue that could tell me who the man was or why Elsa had kept the picture hidden away.

I examined it again, hoping to notice something I had missed.

Then I heard a faint sound.

I paused, holding my breath.

Silence.

It must have been my imagination.

I looked down at the photograph once more, then carefully placed it on the edge of the nightstand while I continued searching the drawer.

I was so focused on finding something useful that I didn't notice how close I had placed it to the edge.

My elbow brushed against the nightstand.

The photograph slid off.

I reached for it, but my fingers missed.

CRASH!

The frame struck the floor, and the glass shattered across the tiles.

I froze.

"Oh, shit."

I bent down to retrieve the photograph, but before I could reach it, a hand seized my wrist.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?"

I flinched.

Elsa stood behind me, her face twisted with anger. Her free hand pressed against her injured side, but she seemed too furious to care about the pain.

"Let go of me!" I snapped, trying to pull my wrist free.

"Answer me first!" Her grip tightened. "Who gave you permission to come into my room and go through my belongings?"

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me, Mika!" she cut in. "I've had enough of your childish behaviour, but this? Breaking into my room and searching through my things? Have you completely lost your mind?"

I stared at her, stunned by the sheer audacity of her words.

"Breaking into your room? I walked through an unlocked door!"

"And that makes it acceptable?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it again.

Damn it.

She had a point, and I hated that she did.

Before I could come up with a response, Elsa's gaze dropped to the shattered frame between us.

Her expression changed.

The anger didn't disappear completely, but something else slipped through it as she looked at the photograph lying among the broken glass.

She released my wrist and bent to pick it up, wincing when the movement pulled at her injury.

I reached for it at the same time.

Our fingers brushed.

"Don't touch that!" she barked.

I pulled my hand back, startled by the sudden sharpness in her voice.

Elsa carefully lifted the photograph, inspecting it for damage. Her jaw tightened when she noticed the cracked glass still clinging to the frame.

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she looked at me.

"Get out."

"Who is the man in the photograph?"

Her eyes snapped to mine.

"I said, get out of my room."

"And I asked you a question."

"You're in no position to question me after what you've just done."

"Then stop acting like you've got something to hide!"

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Elsa went still.

I expected another angry retort, perhaps another threat to drag me out herself despite her injury.

Instead, she looked down at the photograph.

When she finally raised her eyes to mine, the anger was still there, but something beneath it made me hesitate.

"Stay out of my belongings, Mika," she said coldly. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

I stared at Elsa, trying to understand why a single photograph had provoked such a strong reaction.

Before I could question her again, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

It was a message from Dad.

Dad: Meet me in my office. NOW!

I frowned at the message. So much for the conversation I'd been trying

to have with him all evening.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and looked back at Elsa. She was still holding the photograph, her expression closed off again.

Whatever she was hiding, I wasn't going to forget about it. But first, I needed to find out what Dad wanted.