Chapter 2 — Three Years of Lies
Chapter 2 — Three Years of Lies
The electronic locks echoed through Hawthorne Manor.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Every entrance was sealed.
Outside, rain lashed against the mansion as security vehicles quietly took their positions around the estate.
Inside...
No one moved.
The servants stood frozen.
Some looked frightened.
Others looked relieved.
For years, they had lived beneath an invisible shadow, afraid that saying the wrong thing would cost them their jobs—or worse.
Damian Hawthorne's voice broke the silence.
"No one leaves."
His eyes never left Vanessa Sinclair.
"Until I know exactly what happened to my wife."
Vanessa forced a smile.
"You've had a long flight."
"I think you're letting your emotions cloud your judgment."
Damian answered without raising his voice.
"My judgment is the only thing that's been clear for the last three years."
He turned to the head of security.
"Lock down every security recording."
"Yes, sir."
"No files are to be deleted."
"Understood."
Vanessa's fingers tightened around her wineglass.
Only Damian noticed.
It was the first crack in her confidence.
Damian slowly turned toward Isabella.
She still stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, clutching the old wedding ring in her shaking hand.
He noticed everything.
The oversized maid's uniform.
The fading bruises along her wrists.
The scar near her collarbone that hadn't been there three years ago.
His heart broke all over again.
He carefully removed his suit jacket.
Without asking...
He gently placed it over her shoulders.
She flinched.
Not because she didn't want it.
Because she had forgotten what kindness felt like.
Damian's chest tightened.
"You're freezing."
She whispered,
"I'll ruin it."
"You could never."
Tears filled her eyes again.
She lowered her head.
"I don't deserve..."
He interrupted softly.
"Don't."
She looked at him.
"I searched for you every day."
Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.
"I never stopped."
Vanessa stepped forward.
"This is becoming ridiculous."
Damian didn't even look at her.
"Take Mrs. Hawthorne upstairs."
Two female housekeepers hurried forward.
Isabella instinctively stepped backward.
"No."
Everyone stopped.
Her breathing became uneven.
"Please..."
"I can't go upstairs."
Damian frowned.
"Why?"
Her face turned pale.
She looked toward the second floor.
Every muscle in her body stiffened.
Almost as if she were looking at a prison.
The older housekeeper quietly wiped away a tear.
Damian noticed.
"What happened upstairs?"
No one answered.
The silence itself became an answer.
Damian slowly climbed the staircase.
Each step echoed through the enormous mansion.
Vanessa finally lost her composure.
"You have no right—"
He stopped halfway.
"No right?"
He turned.
"This is my home."
Vanessa forced another smile.
"Of course."
"Then why are you nervous?"
She said nothing.
Damian continued upstairs.
The hallway looked exactly as he remembered.
Except for one door.
At the end of the corridor...
A heavy steel lock had been installed on what used to be Isabella's private art studio.
His heartbeat accelerated.
He reached for the handle.
Locked.
"Open it."
Vanessa folded her arms.
"It's just storage."
"Open it."
"There are confidential company files."
Damian looked toward the security chief.
"Break it."
Within seconds, two officers stepped forward.
One powerful strike.
The lock shattered.
The door slowly swung open.
The room smelled of dust.
And loneliness.
Damian stepped inside.
Everything stopped.
Three years earlier, this room had overflowed with sunlight, paintings, flowers, and music.
Now...
The windows had been nailed shut.
The furniture was gone.
Only a thin mattress remained in one corner.
A metal bucket.
A cracked mirror.
Chains attached to the wall.
The room fell silent.
The security chief whispered,
"My God..."
Damian couldn't breathe.
His vision blurred.
He slowly knelt beside the mattress.
There...
Folded with impossible care...
Was Isabella's old blue sweater.
The one she always wore on rainy days.
He picked it up.
It still carried the faint scent of lavender.
A memory rushed back.
"Promise me something," Isabella had once laughed.
"If I ever disappear, you'll know I didn't leave without this sweater."
Damian closed his eyes.
She had never left.
She had been trapped.
Inside his own house.
Downstairs...
Isabella suddenly collapsed into a chair.
Her breathing became shallow.
One of the elderly maids hurried over.
"She's having another panic attack."
Damian heard the words from upstairs.
He ran.
Forgetting everyone else.
Forgetting Vanessa.
Forgetting the empire.
He dropped beside Isabella.
"Bella."
She couldn't answer.
Her hands shook violently.
Her eyes darted around the room as though expecting someone to hurt her.
Damian gently held her hands.
"Look at me."
Nothing.
"Listen to my voice."
Still nothing.
Then...
Very softly...
He began humming.
An old melody.
The song they had danced to at their wedding.
The room became still.
Isabella's trembling slowly eased.
Her breathing steadied.
Finally...
She looked into his eyes.
"You remembered."
"I remember everything."
A single tear slid down her face.
"I thought..."
she whispered,
"...you hated me."
Damian looked as though someone had struck him.
"Hate you?"
She nodded.
"They said..."
"Who?"
She looked toward Vanessa.
Immediately...
She fell silent.
Damian stood.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
His voice was almost calm.
"What exactly did you tell my wife?"
Vanessa answered coldly.
"The truth."
Damian laughed once.
A humorless sound.
"The truth?"
"You abandoned her."
"No."
"You let her believe I stopped searching."
Vanessa remained silent.
"You convinced the world she ran away."
Still silence.
"You moved into my home."
Silence again.
Every unanswered question became another confession.
Just then...
The mansion's elderly butler, Mr. Aldridge, stepped forward.
He had served the Hawthorne family for forty-one years.
Never once had he spoken against an employer.
Until tonight.
His hands trembled.
"Sir..."
Damian turned.
"I have failed you."
"What do you mean?"
The old man's eyes filled with tears.
"I should have told you years ago."
Vanessa spun around.
"Don't."
He ignored her.
"There were nights..."
he whispered,
"...when I heard Mrs. Hawthorne crying."
The room froze.
"I believed..."
"I believed Miss Sinclair had your permission."
Damian stared at him.
"What permission?"
The butler looked broken.
"She told all of us..."
"...that Mrs. Hawthorne had suffered a mental breakdown."
Another silence.
"She said the doctors ordered complete isolation."
Damian slowly shook his head.
"There were no doctors."
"No, sir."
"There never were."
At that exact moment...
A loud engine echoed outside.
Headlights swept across the front windows.
Everyone turned.
A black SUV stopped at the mansion gates.
Another followed.
Then another.
The security chief looked at his radio.
His expression changed instantly.
"Sir..."
"What is it?"
"A team from Hawthorne Group headquarters has arrived."
"Who sent them?"
"They say..."
He swallowed.
"...they're here under Miss Sinclair's emergency executive authority."
Vanessa smiled for the first time in several minutes.
"You may own the house, Damian."
She picked up her wineglass again.
"But tomorrow morning..."
"...the company belongs to me."
Damian looked toward the front entrance as dozens of expensive black vehicles filled the driveway.
Then he looked back at the frightened woman wearing his jacket.
For three years, he had searched the world for his wife.
Now that he had found her...
Someone intended to take everything else.
And before sunrise...
May you like
Damian would learn that the conspiracy against Isabella had never been about love alone.
It had always been about the Hawthorne empire.
