Isla's POV
I don't sleep.
The message burns in my mind all night. Ask him about the accident. The REAL story.
What does that mean? The accident that killed my parents was investigated. Ruled accidental. Brake failure, loss of control, the car went into the river.
Right?
By the time sun creeps through my windows, I've convinced myself the text is just some sick prank. Someone from school being cruel. It has to be.
But I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong.
I go downstairs around eight, hoping to find Damien at breakfast like usual. Instead, Elias is there, looking worried.
Where's Damien? I ask.
Emergency at the office. He left early. Elias studies me too closely. Are you all right? You look tired.
I'm fine. I pour coffee with shaking hands. Did he say when he'd be back?
No. But he asked me to remind you that you have a meeting with your trust administrator this afternoon.
Right. The trust fund my parents left me. Now that I'm eighteen, I get access to some of it. Not all—Damien controls the full amount until I'm twenty-one—but enough to have some freedom.
The thought should excite me. Instead, it makes me feel trapped.
I spend the morning trying to distract myself. Reading. Painting. Anything to stop thinking about last night in the study.
You don't know what I am. What I'm capable of.
What did he mean by that?
Harper calls around noon. So? Did Ice King acknowledge your existence after I left?
Sort of. I don't mention what happened in his study. I can barely process it myself.
That's progress, I guess. Hey, want to get lunch? You sound like you need to escape that mansion.
I can't. I have a meeting about my trust fund.
Ooh, grown-up stuff. Okay, but call me after? I want details about the birthday gift drama.
After she hangs up, I get ready for the meeting. Conservative dress, minimal makeup. The administrator is an older man named Mr. Peterson who's managed my parents' estate since they died.
He arrives at two, briefcase in hand. We sit in Damien's study—which still smells like him, scotch and expensive cologne—and go through paperwork.
Now that you're eighteen, you have access to your monthly allowance directly, Mr. Peterson explains. Twenty thousand per month, automatically deposited. The bulk of the trust—approximately forty million—remains under Mr. Blackwood's management until you turn twenty-one, as per your father's will.
Forty million. The number should mean something, but it just feels abstract.
Why does Damien control it until I'm twenty-one? Most trusts transfer at eighteen.
Your father felt you needed guidance until you were more mature. Mr. Peterson shifts uncomfortably. Mr. Blackwood has done an excellent job managing the funds. The portfolio has grown significantly.
Can I see the statements?
Of course. He pulls out a thick folder.
I scan the numbers, not really understanding most of it. Investments, transfers, returns. Everything looks professional and boring.
Then something catches my eye.
A transfer from six years ago. Two million dollars to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. The date: one week after my parents died.
What's this? I point to the line item.
Mr. Peterson leans over. Ah, yes. That was a legal settlement. Mr. Blackwood handled it on your behalf.
Settlement for what?
I'm not privy to the details. You'd have to ask Mr. Blackwood.
But something about it feels wrong. Why would there be a settlement one week after the accident? Who was being paid?
After Mr. Peterson leaves, I sit in Damien's study, staring at the statement.
Ask him about the accident. The REAL story.
No. I'm being paranoid. There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.
But I can't stop myself from opening Damien's filing cabinet—the one that's never locked because nobody dares go through his things.
I find the file labeled Hartley Estate and pull it out.
Inside are documents I recognize: the will, the guardianship papers, insurance claims. All normal.
Then I find a handwritten note, tucked between pages. Damien's sharp handwriting:
Witness paid. Car cleaned. Insurance approved. She can never know.
My hands start shaking.
Witness paid? Car cleaned? Know what?
I'm still staring at the note when I hear footsteps.
Damien appears in the doorway, still in his suit from this morning. He takes one look at me holding the file and goes very still.
What are you doing in my private papers?
What does this mean? I hold up the note with trembling fingers. 'Witness paid. Car cleaned. She can never know.' What can't I know, Damien?
His face goes carefully blank. Put that back.
No. Tell me what it means.
Isla. Warning fills his voice. You're crossing a line.
Good! Maybe it's time I crossed some lines! I stand, the file clutched to my chest. Someone sent me a message last night. They told me to ask you about the accident. About the REAL story. So I'm asking—what really happened to my parents?
Something flashes across his face. Fear? Guilt?
Who sent you a message?
I don't know. An unknown number. I pull out my phone and show him.
Damien reads it, his jaw clenching tighter with each word. Then he does something that terrifies me—he smashes my phone against the desk, shattering it.
Hey! What
That phone is compromised. I'll get you a new one. He grabs my shoulders, his grip almost painful. Did you respond? Did you tell anyone else about this?
No, I—Damien, you're scaring me.
He releases me immediately, running a hand through his hair. For the first time since I've known him, he looks rattled. Scared, even.
I need you to trust me.
How can I trust you when you won't tell me the truth?
Because some truths are dangerous. He cups my face with both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. Your parents' accident was investigated. Ruled accidental. That's the truth that matters.
But that note
Was about protecting you from people who wanted to exploit your grief. Nothing more.
He's lying. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands tremble slightly against my skin.
You're hiding something.
Yes. The admission shocks me. I'm hiding many things, Isla. Things that would hurt you if you knew. Things that would destroy what little peace you've found.
That's not your choice to make!
Yes, it is. His thumbs brush my cheekbones. I've spent six years keeping you safe. I'm not stopping now, even if you hate me for it.
I don't hate you. The words slip out before I can stop them. I just want the truth.
You can't handle the truth.
Try me.
For a long moment, we stand there, his hands on my face, my heart pounding. The same tension from last night crackles between us—want and fear and something darker.
Then Damien does something unexpected. He leans down and presses his forehead to mine, his eyes closed.
I can't lose you, he whispers. Not to the truth. Not to whoever's sending those messages. Not to anyone. Do you understand? I can't
His voice breaks, and my heart breaks with it.
Damien
A knock on the door makes us both jump apart.
Elias enters, his face grim. Sir, we have a problem. Julian Cross is here. He says he's Isla's uncle, and he has legal documents demanding to see her.
I freeze. Uncle Julian? My father's brother?
Your father cut all contact with him years ago, Damien says, his voice ice again. He's not welcome here.
He has a court order, Elias says quietly. We have to let him in.
Damien's hands clench into fists. Then show him to the sitting room. But I'm staying with Isla the entire time.
Of course, sir.
After Elias leaves, Damien turns to me. Listen carefully. Julian is dangerous. He'll say things designed to manipulate you, to turn you against me. Don't believe anything he says.
Why would he
Because he wants your inheritance. He wants control of Hartley Tech. And the easiest way to get it is to remove me as your guardian. He grips my shoulders again. Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't trust him.
I promise.
But as we walk to the sitting room, I can't help wondering—what if Julian has the answers Damien won't give me?
What if the real danger isn't my uncle, but the man who's been controlling my life for six years?