THE LOCKED DRAWER

By the time the sun pushed through the floor-length windows, Anais was already awake.

Not from sleep. She hadn’t closed her eyes all night.

The interview had aired.

She could feel it in the silence.

No messages from Cassian. No breakfast. Not even the routine morning check-in from Irene.

Instead, her phone lit up with hundreds of tags, pings, and news alerts. Screenshots. Headlines. Threads filled with dissected phrases she barely remembered saying.

“I left because I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.”

“A woman erased in her own marriage.”

Some called her brave. Others called her manipulative.

But one message stood out. No name. No number.

Just one sentence.

There’s a reason the drawer is locked.

She stared at it for a long time, her thumb hovering over the screen.

The drawer.

She knew exactly which one.

Cassian’s home office was a cold, sterile space. Too perfect. Like no one had ever really worked in it—just designed it for show. But the mahogany filing cabinet near the far wall? That drawer?

It had been locked for as long as she could remember. Even during their first marriage.

She remembered asking him once.

“What’s in there?”

He didn’t even look up from his laptop. “Company files.”

Except that drawer didn’t match the rest. It wasn’t part of the clean-lined, modern furniture. It was older. It had history.

She’d let it go then.

She wasn’t letting it go now.

Anais waited until Cassian left for the office—early, as usual. No goodbye. Just the quiet slam of the front door and the echo of expensive shoes on marble.

Once she was sure the house was empty, she slipped into the study.

The key wasn’t in the usual places. Not on his desk. Not in the top drawer. She checked inside books, under folders. Nothing.

Then she noticed the safe.

Tucked under the glass display shelf.

She’d seen him punch in the code once. Back when she was supposed to be the woman he trusted.

Six digits.

His sister’s birthday.

The lock clicked.

Inside—documents, spare cards, two passports. And a small gold key.

She took it.

Her hands didn’t shake until she got to the drawer.

Click.

It opened with a quiet sigh, as if it had been waiting years to be touched.

Inside,a slim folder marked PRIVATE — 2017.

She flipped it open and the world tilted.

There were hospital records.

Scans.

Photos.

Not of her.

Of another woman.

A woman she didn’t recognize—mid-thirties, pale eyes, long dark hair. And a child. A girl. Five or six years old.

Attached was a court order. Non-disclosure agreement. Custody agreement.

Anais backed up from the drawer like it had burned her.

She couldn’t breathe.

Cassian had a child.

While they were married? Or before?

She sat down on the edge of the chair, heart thudding in her throat.

She hadn’t left him because of a child. She’d left because of silence. Because of grief. Because she’d felt invisible in a house full of whispers.

But now—now she wasn’t sure what she’d left at all.

The door slammed.

She jumped.

Cassian was home.

Too early.

“Anais?” His voice was sharp, closer than she thought.

She shoved the folder back inside, locked the drawer, stuffed the key in her pocket.

He appeared in the doorway seconds later.

His eyes moved over her—then to the drawer.

He stilled.

“What did you see?”

She stood slowly. “What didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t speak.

“You had a child.”

Still, silence.

“You have a child.” Her voice cracked now.

His jaw tightened. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really? Because what it looks like is that I was here, grieving the loss of our baby, and you—”

“It was before,” he said quietly.

“Before we got married?”

“Yes.”

“And you hid her from me.”

“I didn’t hide her. I protected her.”

Anais’s stomach turned.

“You kept her locked in a drawer? And you call that protection?”

“She’s not a secret,” he said. “She’s a part of my past. Her mother made it very clear she wanted nothing from me—just silence. I respected that.”

“You respected her wishes? What about me?”

He stepped closer. “You never asked.”

She laughed. A hollow, bitter sound. “So now this is my fault?”

“You never wanted to know who I was before you,” he said, quietly but firmly. “You only cared about the version of me that loved you.”

“And what version is that, Cassian? Because I don’t know what I’m looking at anymore.”

His face flickered. Something fragile passed through it—but it was gone too quickly.

“Does Julien know?” she asked.

That got a reaction.

He looked away.

“Oh,” she said softly. “So that’s what this is.”

The cryptic posts. The smug looks. The thinly veiled shots at her in interviews. Julien wasn’t trying to expose her.

He was circling Cassian’s secrets.

“You don’t understand what’s at stake,” Cassian said.

“No. You made sure I never would.”

She turned toward the door.

Cassian stepped in front of her.

“I need you to keep this quiet.”

Anais stared at him. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Trust,” she said, “isn’t a word you get to use anymore.”

She walked past him.

But before she left, she turned back one last time.

“That little girl… is she safe?”

Cassian nodded. “Yes. She’s safe.”

“Good. Because she’s the only innocent one in this mess.”

Anais didn’t go back to her room.

She didn’t call Irene. She didn’t answer her phone.

She went outside, sat on the front steps, and let the weight of it all settle in her chest like a stone.

She wasn’t sure what the next move was. But one thing was clear.

Someone had lied to her every step of the way.

And she wasn’t going to let it go this time.