Chapter 9-SOUTHBRIDGE.

Anais didn’t sleep.

That had become the pattern lately—nights spent tracing the outlines of truths she hadn’t asked for, and mornings spent swallowing the ache of pretending she didn’t care.

The message haunted her.

Ask him about Southbridge. 2019.

She had. He didn’t answer.

That was an answer in itself.

By morning, the house felt smaller. Colder. Like the walls knew something too.

Cassian had left again—early, like always. She hadn’t heard the door. Just woke to find the bed untouched on his side and a mug with a full cup of untouched coffee on the kitchen counter. Black. Still hot.

He’d made it.

Then walked out.

Anais didn’t bother dressing up when she left. No makeup. No heels. Just jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap pulled low to cover up her chestnut brown hair which was put in a messy bun. She took one of the company cars, gave no explanation to the driver, and sat silent in the back until the city swallowed her whole.

She was going to Southbridge.

Not because she knew what she’d find—but because not knowing felt worse.

The town was two hours outside the city. A quiet, too-normal place where nothing looked important enough to be scandalous. Just long stretches of highway, the occasional gas station, and the heavy air of something forgotten.

She’d expected secrets to look dramatic.

Instead, they looked ordinary.

She asked the driver to wait at a diner, then started walking. A folder of printouts and maps under her arm—the few scraps she’d been able to dig up on her phone at 3 a.m.

Southbridge. Vale Industries. Year: 2019.

A real estate project. Land acquisition. A woman’s name she didn’t recognize but couldn’t stop repeating in her head.

Eleanor Wyatt.

She found the address.

An old brick house at the end of a cracked, narrow road. The kind of place that had a story long before money ever got involved.

She hesitated at the gate.

Then rang the bell.

A woman answered.

Mid-forties. Sharp eyes. Faded beauty, the kind that didn’t care to be restored. She stared at Anais like she already knew why she was there.

“You’re not a reporter,” the woman said.

“No.”

“You’re not with zoning either.”

“No.”

“You’re from his world.”

Anais swallowed. “You know Cassian Vale?”

The woman gave a short, humorless laugh that exposed her white set of teeth. “Don’t we all.”

Her name was Eleanor. And she didn’t offer coffee. Or pleasantries. Just motioned for Anais to sit in a worn-out armchair and started talking.

“Back in 2019, Vale Industries bought out most of Southbridge. Promised to ‘develop responsibly.’ Said they’d turn this area into a high-end tech district. Sounded good at first. Good jobs, better schools, modern roads.”Eleanor said whilst reclining in her chair

Anais nodded slowly. “What happened?”

Eleanor’s eyes darkened.

“They lied.”

Anais leaned forward. “How?”

“They bought the land. My land. My sister’s. Our neighbors’. And they didn’t wait for the permits. They started excavation before legal clearance. My sister’s health collapsed from the dust, the chemicals. She filed a complaint.”

She paused.

“She died a month later.”

Anais felt the chill in her chest spread.

“And Cassian?” she asked softly.

Eleanor nodded once. “He was behind it all. Not just a signature. Not just a figurehead. He came here. Sat in that chair. Told us it would all be worth it.”

“And it wasn’t.”

“It destroyed us.”

Anais looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Eleanor stared at her. “Are you here to make it right?”

“I don’t know what I’m here for anymore.” She whispered.

Back in the car, Anais stared out the window in silence as the city came back into view.

Cassian wasn’t just a man with a locked drawer.

He was a man who built his empire on things that couldn’t be buried forever.

And someone out there knew it.

Someone wanted her to know it too.

By the time she got home, the sun was already slipping behind the skyline.

Cassian was in the living room, glass in hand, jacket draped over the back of the chair. He looked tired. Like the day had clawed at him.

She walked in without saying a word.

He looked up.

“I got your text,” he said. “You were in Southbridge.”

She nodded.

He didn’t ask what she saw.

So she told him.

“Eleanor Wyatt says your company caused her sister’s death.”

His grip tightened around the glass leaving a crack at the rim “That’s not the full story.” He seethed painfully.

“No?” She stepped closer. “Then tell me the full one. Right now.”

Cassian looked at her. “You don’t want the whole truth.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want.”

His voice dropped. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far. We had permits pending, and the land was going to be cleared eventually. The team made a call to move forward. I approved it, yes. But the chemicals—they weren’t part of the original plan. The subcontractor cut corners.”

“And you didn’t stop it?”

“We didn’t find out until it was too late.”

She laughed once, low. “You’ve got excuses ready for everything, don’t you?”

He looked at her, finally really looked at her. “You think I sleep at night?”

“You think I do?”

The silence between them wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was cutting.

She walked to the bedroom.

He followed her.

“Anais,” he said, softer now. “Why are you really digging into all of this?”

She turned to face him. “Because I came back thinking I knew who I married. And now every day, I realize I don’t.”

He didn’t speak.

She stepped forward.

“You could’ve told me about Lina. You could’ve told me about Southbridge. You could’ve treated me like your partner instead of your PR solution.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admitted.

She stared at him. “Then you shouldn’t have married me again.”

That landed harder than she expected.

Cassian stepped back. Just slightly.

Like something inside him gave out.

She left the room.

Not storming.

Not slamming doors.

Just walking away from the man who kept asking for loyalty and offering shadows in return.

That night, a new message came in.

Same unknown number.

He’s not done lying. Check the second floor of his office. Behind the painting.

She stared at the text.

Then got up, grabbed her sweater, and walked back down the hall.

Cassian’s home office was dark just as she had left it the previous day.She didn’t turn on the light.

The second floor was more like a private mezzanine—glass-railed, minimalist, and barely used.

The painting hung above the bookshelf. Abstract. All cold angles and sharp streaks of black and gray.

She tilted it.

Behind it—nothing at first.

Then a magnetic click.

A slim panel slid open in the wall.

Inside: a leather notebook. Locked.

And a small white envelope. No seal. Just her name in Cassian’s handwriting.

She took it.

Walked back to her room.

Opened it slowly.

Inside, a single sheet of paper.

One line.

If you read this, I’ve already lost you. But I loved you anyway.

Anais stared at it for a long, long time.

And for the first time in days, she cried.

Not because she was weak.

Not because she’d been hurt.

But because somewhere in this twisted, broken mess of secrets and business and silence—she still loved him too.

And that terrified her more than anything.