Chapter 3: The Uncanny Resemblance

Aurelia’s POV

My breath hitched in my throat, but I forced every muscle in my face to remain frozen.

He’s testing you. Stay calm.

"I get that a lot, Mr. Kingsley," I said softly, tilting my head just enough to break the direct line of his gaze. "Generic features, I suppose. Brown hair, ordinary eyes."

Thorne didn't blink. He took another step closer, his broad shoulders cutting off the morning light from the high window. He smelled of rain, cedar, and expensive espresso—a scent so deeply buried in my memories that my chest throbbed with a dull, sudden ache.

"There is nothing ordinary about your eyes, Miss Cole," Thorne murmured, his deep voice dropping an octave. "I’ve only seen that exact shade of amber once in my life."

He raised his hand. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to touch my cheek. My heart thundered against my ribs like a wild animal trying to smash through a cage. But he stopped an inch short, his long fingers hovering near the strap of my canvas tool bag.

With agonizing slowness, his gaze dropped to my right hand.

I had wrapped the white gauze thickly, but a tiny drop of fresh blood had seeped through the fabric near the base of my thumb.

"You're injured," Thorne noted, his tone shifting instantly into something cold and analytical.

"An accident at my shop yesterday," I replied smoothly, pulling my hand back and slipping it into the deep pocket of my jacket. "A glass bottle slipped. It’s minor."

"I don't hire people who are careless with their hands," Thorne said, his gray eyes snapping back to mine with razor-sharp intensity. "This restoration requires microscopic precision. Can you handle a chisel with a bandaged palm?"

"I’ve been doing this work for seven years, Mr. Kingsley," I said, letting a subtle edge of professional pride slip into my voice. "My hands don't shake."

Thorne stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. The heavy silence in the library felt like a physical pressure crushing down on my chest.

"We'll see," he said quietly. He turned his back on me, walking toward a massive dark mahogany desk situated near the fireplace. He picked up a leather-bound folder and tossed it onto the blotter. "Your contract."

I walked over, keeping my steps slow and even, and looked down at the documents.

"Fifty thousand for three weeks," I read aloud, scanning the terms. "All work to be completed between eight in the morning and five in the evening."

"Those were the old terms," Thorne interrupted, leaning back against the edge of the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "I modified them fifteen minutes ago."

I frowned, looking up at him. "Modified?"

"Seventy-five thousand," Thorne said, his voice flat and unyielding. "On one condition."

"Which is?"

"You will stay in the guest cottage on the east end of the estate for the duration of the project," he said, watching my face for the slightest reaction. "You will eat your meals here. You will not leave the grounds without my head of security clearing your transit."

Panic slammed into my stomach like a bucket of ice water.

Stay on the estate? Locked inside his perimeter?

If I stayed here 24/7, keeping Noah secret would become a nightmare. My caretaker, Sarah, was looking after him, but three weeks away from my four-year-old son felt like an eternity.

"That wasn't part of the agreement with Mr. Henderson," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my throat. "I have a personal life, Mr. Kingsley. I have responsibilities outside of my workshop."

Thorne straightened up, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me until he was towering over my smaller frame once again.

"Then turn down the contract," he said softly, his voice carrying a dangerous, smooth challenge. "Walk out those iron gates right now, Miss Cole. But if you walk out, I will ensure no museum, gallery, or private collector in Chicago ever hires your shop again."

My hands clenched inside my pockets. He hasn't changed at all. Behind the quiet demeanor was the same ruthless, unstoppable force that had built the Kingsley empire into a monster.

"You're blackmailing a conservator?" I asked, a genuine, bitter smile touching my lips.

"I am protecting my investment," Thorne corrected coldly. "I don't like strangers coming and going from my home. If you want the money, you stay where I can see you."

He reached out, picking up a heavy silver fountain pen from his desk, and held it out to me.

I stared at the pen. The silver cap was engraved with small, delicate initials: T.K. & A.K.

It was the pen I had given him for his twenty-first birthday, the pen he had promised to keep forever.

My fingers trembled slightly as I reached out and took the pen from his hand. Our skin brushed for a fraction of a second. A jolt of pure, fiery electricity shot up my forearm, making my breath hitch.

Thorne froze. His eyes widened slightly as his gaze dropped to where our fingers had touched, a flicker of pure shock passing over his hardened features.

I quickly pulled my hand back, signed my false name at the bottom of the parchment in swift, practiced cursive Aurelia Cole, and set the pen down on the desk.

"I'll have my bag brought from my car," I said quietly, turning toward the burned oak wall to avoid looking at him. "I'd like to begin assessing the wood damage now."

"Miss Cole," Thorne’s voice called out from behind me, stopping me in my tracks.

I didn't turn around. "Yes, Mr. Kingsley?"

"The handwriting," Thorne murmured, his voice sounding oddly strained, as if he were trying to pull air into his lungs. "Where did you learn to slant your 'E's like that?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring at the black, scorched oak in front of me.

"A teacher I used to know," I lied softly. "A long time ago."