Chapter 1 - The Voice He Never Forgot
“I’m sorry.”
The words were barely louder than the rain striking the mansion windows.
But Damian Hawthorne heard them.
He stopped beneath the crystal chandelier, one hand still gripping the handle of his black leather briefcase. Water dripped from his coat onto the marble floor, yet he did not move.
That voice.
Three years had passed since he had last heard it.
Three years of sleepless nights, unanswered phone calls, false sightings, private jets, police interviews, and investigators returning with nothing but apologies.
Three years since his wife, Elara Hawthorne, had vanished.
Damian slowly turned toward the woman kneeling beside the overturned silver tray.
She wore a gray maid’s uniform that hung loosely from her thin frame. Her bare feet were red from the cold. Wet strands of dark hair hid most of her face as she gathered broken glass with shaking fingers.
A drop of blood appeared on her palm.
“Look at me,” Damian said.
The maid froze.
Above them, Celeste Vale stood halfway down the grand staircase, holding a glass of red wine. She wore a white silk dress and the calm smile of a woman who believed she controlled everything inside the house.
“Damian,” Celeste said lightly. “You’re home early.”
He did not look at her.
“Look at me,” he repeated.
The maid’s shoulders began to tremble.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
The room disappeared.
The servants lining the hallway disappeared.
The storm disappeared.
Damian saw only the pale face before him.
Her cheeks were hollow. A faded bruise marked her jaw. There was a small scar above her left eyebrow that had not been there before.
But her eyes were unchanged.
Gray-blue.
Soft.
Once filled with laughter.
“Elara,” Damian whispered.
The maid flinched as though her name had struck her.
Celeste’s smile vanished.
Damian dropped his briefcase.
It hit the marble with a deafening crack.
He crossed the distance between them, but Elara scrambled backward, raising one arm to protect her face.
“No,” she gasped. “Please. I didn’t steal anything. I’ll clean it. Please don’t send me downstairs.”
Damian stopped instantly.
Downstairs.
The word chilled him more than the storm outside.
“Elara, it’s me.”
Her eyes searched his face.
For one second, he saw recognition.
Then terror swallowed it.
Celeste descended another step.
“She isn’t your wife,” she said. “Her name is Mara. She was hired six months ago through an agency. She’s unstable, Damian. She sometimes pretends to be other people.”
Damian finally looked at her.
Celeste had worked beside him for seven years. She had comforted him after Elara vanished. She had organized search teams, handled press conferences, and slowly taken control of Hawthorne Global while Damian traveled across Europe searching for his wife.
Now she stood above Elara with wine in her hand.
And Elara was afraid of her.
Damian’s voice became dangerously calm.
“Security.”
Two guards appeared from the eastern corridor.
Celeste’s confidence returned.
“Take the maid downstairs,” she ordered.
Neither guard moved.
Damian took out his phone.
“Robert,” he said when his head of security answered. “Lock every gate. No one leaves the property.”
Celeste’s glass stopped halfway to her lips.
“Damian, you’re overreacting.”
“Cut external access to the security system. Freeze all staff credentials except mine.”
The mansion’s electronic locks clicked almost simultaneously.
Damian made a second call.
“Marcus, freeze every discretionary account connected to Hawthorne Global and the Hawthorne Family Trust. No transfers. No withdrawals. Nothing.”
Celeste’s face drained of color.
“You cannot do that.”
“I just did.”
He called his attorney next.
“Bring a legal team, a forensic accountant, and the police. Come to the mansion now.”
Elara stared at him as though she could not understand why anyone was defending her.
Damian crouched several feet away, careful not to touch her.
“Elara, I won’t hurt you.”
Her lips trembled.
“They said you stopped looking.”
His face tightened.
“I never stopped.”
“They said you married her.”
Elara’s eyes flickered toward Celeste.
Damian slowly turned.
Celeste stepped backward.
“That’s absurd,” she said. “She’s confused.”
Damian looked at the wine in Celeste’s hand, then at the bruises on his wife’s arms.
“Put down the glass.”
Celeste laughed nervously.
“You need to calm down.”
“Put it down.”
The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the staircase.
Elara gasped and covered her ears.
Damian removed his coat and placed it gently beside her.
“You don’t have to tell me everything tonight,” he said. “Just answer one question.”
Elara stared at him.
“Who brought you here?”
Her breathing became shallow.
Celeste gripped the banister.
Elara opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.
Then a quiet voice came from the upper landing.
“She did.”
Everyone looked up.
An elderly housekeeper named Mrs. Wren stood in the shadows. She had served the Hawthorne family for more than thirty years.
Her eyes were wet with tears.
“But Celeste wasn’t the one who ordered it.”
Damian rose slowly.
Mrs. Wren looked toward the portrait hanging above the staircase.
A portrait of Damian as a boy standing beside his elegant mother.
“The order came from Eleanor Hawthorne.”
Damian stopped breathing.
May you like
His mother had been dead for two years.
At least, that was what everyone had been told.
