A House of Ghosts
By dawn, the city was waking up — but inside Blackwood Mansion, no one had slept.
Clara sat curled on the sofa, wrapped in one of Ethan's jackets. Her eyes were fixed on the flames in the fireplace, though her mind was far away — replaying every sound, every flash of the explosion.
Mia had fallen asleep beside her, the infamous folder clutched to her chest like a lifeline.
Ethan stood by the window, staring out at the gray morning. Damien sat nearby, nursing a mug of coffee.
"You should get checked by a doctor," Damien said.
Ethan didn't look at him. "I'm fine."
"Fine?" Damien scoffed. "You jumped out of a moving car, carried two women through smoke, and nearly got shot. I've seen fine. That's not it."
Ethan's lips twitched faintly. "You talk too much."
"That's how I stay alive."
Despite everything, Clara smiled faintly. The sound of their bickering grounded her — a reminder that they were still here.
"Ethan," she said softly, "Mia mentioned a name last night. Did she tell you who it was?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. She was too shaken."
"Then wake her when she can talk," Damien said. "Because if there's a mole inside your empire, you can bet Victor already knows every move we make."
Clara frowned. "Do you think it's someone close to you?"
Ethan turned, eyes shadowed. "It has to be."
The words sat heavy between them.
Just then, Mia stirred. Her fingers tightened around the folder before her eyes fluttered open. "Is it morning?"
"Barely," Clara said gently. "You should rest."
"No time," Mia muttered, sitting up. "You need to see this."
She opened the folder, spreading the contents across the coffee table — photographs, printed emails, and transaction records. Ethan leaned closer, his pulse quickening.
Each sheet led deeper into a web of betrayal — shell companies, fake accounts, money funneled discreetly into Victor's offshore holdings.
And at the center of it all… a signature.
Damien's eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding."
Clara blinked. "Who is it?"
Ethan's face was unreadable as he stared at the name: Marcus Blackwood.
His half-brother.
Clara whispered, "Marcus? But he—he wouldn't—"
"He would," Ethan said coldly. "If it benefits him."
The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling fire.
Mia bit her lip. "There's more. Victor isn't just using Marcus. He's grooming him — positioning him to take everything from you."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "Not if I end this first."
Damien sighed. "I'm guessing you're not talking about family therapy?"
Ethan shot him a look, but Clara touched his arm gently. "Ethan, please. Don't let anger decide this."
He turned to her, voice low but sharp. "He's funding the man who tried to kill you, Clara. Tell me how I'm supposed to feel calm about that."
Her eyes softened. "By remembering who you are — not who they want you to become."
The words stung — not because she was wrong, but because she was right.
He exhaled, stepping back. "I need to think."
As he left the room, Clara exchanged a worried glance with Damien. Mia gathered the papers quickly, whispering, "He's not ready for what's coming."
Outside, Ethan walked into the cold morning air, gripping the edge of the balcony.
His phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
He answered. "Who is this?"
A pause. Then a voice, smooth and familiar.
"Hello, brother."
Ethan froze.
Marcus chuckled. "You've been busy. Tell Clara I said hello."
The line went dead.
Ethan stood there, pulse hammering, as the wind carried away the last trace of his brother's voice.
And in Victor's office, Marcus stood by the window, watching the sunrise beside his new ally.
"Let him come," Marcus murmured. "This time, I'm not the shadow."