Chapter 1: The Dead Girl’s Hand

Aurelia’s POV

The scent of dry cedar, varnish, and silver polish filled the small workshop.

I kept my hand steady as I adjusted the tiny brass gear inside the clockwork mechanism. My breath was quiet, rhythmic, and controlled. For five years, precision was the only thing that kept me breathing.

"Miss Cole?" a voice called out from the front door.

I didn't turn around immediately. I carefully set my magnifying glass down on the velvet mat before wiping my fingers on my cotton apron.

"In the back, Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice low and soft.

An older man walked through the doorway, holding a thick leather folder under his arm. He looked at the restored 19th-century grandfather clock sitting on my workbench, his eyes widening in appreciation.

"You really are a magician with these pieces, Aurelia," he said, shaking his head. "The museum thought this movement was dead beyond repair."

"Nothing is ever really dead, Mr. Henderson," I replied softly, taking a damp rag to clean the edges of the dark oak frame. "It just needs someone patient enough to put the broken pieces back where they belong."

He smiled, but then his expression turned serious. He tapped the folder against his hip. "I brought the paperwork for the new private commission I mentioned on the phone."

"I told you yesterday, I’m not taking private house calls," I said, turning my back to pick up a small bottle of mineral oil. "I work here in the shop. People bring their antiques to me."

"They are offering fifty thousand dollars for three weeks of work," Mr. Henderson said quietly.

My hand paused over the shelf.

Fifty thousand dollars. That was enough to cover two full years of school tuition and specialized therapy for my four-year-old son, Noah, whom I kept hidden in a quiet cottage three towns away.

"Who is the client?" I asked, keeping my voice entirely neutral.

"The Kingsley Group," he replied. "They just bought back the historic estate on the North Shore. The main library has original hand-carved shelving from the late 1800s that was damaged during a fire years ago. They want a master conservator to restore it on-site."

The air left my lungs all at once. My chest squeezed so tight I couldn't move.

The Kingsley Group.

My family's empire.

"No," I said instantly, turning back around. "Find someone else."

"Aurelia, fifty thousand."

"I said no, Mr. Henderson," I repeated, my heart hammering against my ribs like a wild animal trying to break free. "I don't work for high-society families. They are more trouble than they are worth."

Before he could argue, the small television sitting on the corner shelf chimed with a breaking news alert.

"...We return to our top story out of downtown Chicago, where the Kingsley Group board of directors has officially voted..."

My eyes were drawn to the screen against my will.

The camera was zoomed in on the steps of the glass skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan. A man was walking down the granite steps, surrounded by bodyguards and flashing news cameras. He wore a dark charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was carved from dark stone, his jaw hard, and his eyes an icy, unyielding dark grey.

Thorne.

My fingers tightened around the glass bottle in my hand so hard my knuckles turned white.

Five years ago, he was the quiet, protective boy my father brought home from the orphanage, the brilliant boy who spent long nights helping me with my studies, the boy who swore he would always stand between me and the world.

Now, he was Thorne Kingsley. The cold, ruthless titan who took my father’s throne after my car went over the cliff into the freezing black waters of Lake Michigan.

"...Thorne Kingsley officially assumes full operational control over the estate following the fifth anniversary of the tragic death of the true heiress, Aurelia Kingsley..." the reporter announced.

I stared into his eyes through the screen. There was no warmth left in him. He looked like a man made of frost and iron.

Did he know? Did he know his adopted mother, Helena, was the one who cut the brake lines on my sedan? Did he help her clean up the mess after I drowned?

CRACK.

The glass oil bottle shattered in my grip under the sudden, violent pressure.

A sharp shard sliced deep into the palm of my right hand. Bright red blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the white wooden floorboards of my workshop.

"Aurelia!" Mr. Henderson rushed forward, pulling a towel from the counter. "My god, are you alright?"

I stared down at the blood pooling in my palm. The pain didn't bother me. It was nothing compared to the ice water that had filled my lungs five years ago.

"I'm fine," I whispered, wrapping the cloth tightly around my bleeding hand.

I looked back at the TV screen, watching Thorne step into the back of a black limousine without casting a single glance back at the cameras.

If I stayed in the dark forever, Helena would keep enjoying my father's fortune. Noah would live his whole life hiding his true identity.

I looked at Mr. Henderson, my eyes hard, quiet, and steady.

"Give me the contract," I said, my voice carrying a cold edge he had never heard before. "Tell them I'll be at the estate tomorrow at eight in the morning."