Chapter 5: The Glass Wall

Aurelia's POV

My pulse thundered in my ears, but I didn't let my body move a single inch.

Thorne took another step toward me. The light from the high library windows caught the sharp angles of his face, accentuating the cold focus in his grey eyes.

"She recognized you too," he repeated softly, stopping so close I could feel the heat radiating from his suit jacket. "Didn't she, Miss Cole?"

I forced myself to meet his gaze without blinking. I let out a small, weary sigh and tilted my head, putting on the quiet frustration of a tired working woman who had reached her limit.

"She didn't recognize me, Mr. Kingsley," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "She saw a ghost. And frankly, I don't appreciate being drawn into your family's personal issues."

Thorne narrowed his eyes, searching my face for any flicker of fear or deception.

"You didn't look surprised when she panicked."

"I was confused, not surprised," I lied smoothly. "Your stepmother looked at me like she had seen a corpse. I don't know who you think I resemble, but my name is Aurelia Cole. I grew up in a small town two hours south of here, my parents were teachers, and I have a job to finish."

I picked up my steel scraper from the table, holding it firmly between my gloved fingers.

"If my face is going to cause a scene with your family every time someone walks down this hallway, tell me now," I added, looking him right in the eye. "I can pack my tools and leave."

The room fell into an agonizing silence.

For five long seconds, Thorne didn't move. He stood over me, his dark brows pulled low, his gaze drifting down to my lips before rising back to my eyes. The cold suspicion on his face was slowly replaced by a dark, intense curiosity that made my skin prickle.

"No," Thorne murmured, his deep voice carrying a rough edge. "You're not leaving."

He reached out, his long fingers brushing against the side of my gloved hand as he picked up the small bottle of wood solvent from my staging tray. His touch was brief, but it sent a sharp shock of heat straight up my arm.

"Helena doesn't spend much time in this wing anyway," Thorne said, setting the bottle back down with a quiet thud. "And if she bothers you again, you tell my security team immediately. Understood?"

"Understood, sir," I replied, stepping back slightly to create distance between us.

Thorne lingered for another second, as if he wanted to say something else. Instead, he adjusted the cuffs of his dark suit jacket, turned on his heel, and walked out of the double doors.

The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut, I dropped into the wooden chair beside my staging table and let out a long, trembling breath.

My hands were shaking.

I looked down at my right palm, pulling off my work glove to inspect the bandaged cut. That had been too close. Helena was rattled, which made her dangerous. If she started digging into my background or realized I had a four-year-old child living in a quiet cottage outside the city, everything would fall apart.

I couldn't afford to waste time.

I stood up, walked back to the burned wall, and locked the library doors from the inside.

The scorched oak smelled bitter, but as I ran my bare fingers along the lower molding near the floorboards, I felt the small, raised brass pin hidden beneath the carved ivy design.

I pressed it firmly to the left.

CLICK.

A quiet metallic pop echoed behind the wood. The hidden panel shifted open by half an inch, revealing a small, dark wall cavity hidden inside the masonry.

My breath caught in my throat.

I reached into the gap, my fingertips brushing against cold steel. I pulled out a heavy, leather-bound book wrapped in a thick layer of oiled canvas.

My father's secret ledger.

I quickly unwrapped the canvas. The dark leather cover was worn, but as I opened it, my father's familiar, precise handwriting filled the yellowed pages. Bank account numbers, dates, shell corporation names in Zurich and the Cayman Islands,  and right on the third page, a copy of the secondary will bearing my father's official state seal.

I flipped to the last page, and a folded piece of paper fell out into my lap.

It was a handwritten note from my father, dated three days before his sudden death.

If you are reading this, Aurelia, it means I was right to be afraid. Do not trust Helena. Do not trust the board. And above all else, do not let Thorne touch the Kingsley trust until you have read the documents in account 409.

My heart stopped beating.

Do not trust Thorne?

I stared at the ink on the page, my mind racing in complete chaos.

Five years ago, I believed Thorne was innocent. I believed he was just a pawn Helena used to take control of the company after I disappeared. But why would my father explicitly warn me against the boy he had raised like his own son?

Before I could re-read the line, heavy footsteps echoed outside in the marble hallway.

The heavy brass handle of the library door rattled. Someone was trying to open it.

"Miss Cole?" a voice called out from the hallway: Thorne's private security chief, Marcus. "Mr. Kingsley wants you in the main office. Now."

Panicked, I shoved the ledger back into the wall cavity, slammed the wood panel shut until it clicked, and wiped my dusty hands on my jeans.

I unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open.

Marcus stood in the hallway, his face unreadable and his arm extended. "This way, please."

"Is something wrong?" I asked, keeping my voice as calm as possible.

"Mr. Kingsley just received a private delivery," Marcus said flatly as he led me down the grand corridor toward the executive study. "Something concerning your background check."

My blood ran completely cold.

As Marcus pushed open the double doors to Thorne's private office, I saw Thorne standing by his massive glass desk.

In his hand, he held a high-resolution, color photograph.

And on the desk in front of him sat an official file stamped with the crest of a private investigation firm.

Thorne turned his head, his grey eyes locked onto mine like a predator about to strike.

"Sit down, Aurelia," Thorne said quietly, holding up the photograph. "And explain to me why my investigator just sent me a picture of you holding a four-year-old boy."