Elijah's POV
The rain hadn't stopped all night.
It drummed against the mansion windows like a warning he couldn't ignore.
Elijah stood alone in Richard's old study, the faint scent of cigars and paper still clinging to the air. A single lamp cast its glow over the desk — over files his father once guarded like scripture.
He opened one. Then another.
Contracts, signed under false names. Transfers that shouldn't exist.
And there — at the bottom of a thin folder — a seal.
SolenArt Gallery.
His chest tightened. Starling's father's name was stamped beside it, the same man Richard accused of fraud.
Except this wasn't evidence of guilt.
It was proof of a setup.
A signature — not Starling's father's, but someone else's.
A man named Voss.
The name felt wrong in his mouth, like something out of a nightmare he couldn't quite place.
"Voss…" he murmured, his fingers tightening on the page. "Why does this name sound familiar?"
"Elijah?"
It was Matthew, leaning against the doorway. His tone was careful — too careful.
Elijah turned, slipping the file halfway closed. "What is it?"
"She's been asking about you again," Matthew said quietly. "Clara."
Elijah's jaw hardened. "What did she say?"
"She asked if you still talk to Starling."
The silence between them deepened.
Elijah didn't answer — he couldn't.
Matthew exhaled, lowering his voice. "I know you think you can handle her, but something's off. Liam said he caught her sneaking into Father's office last night."
Elijah's eyes flickered toward the desk again — the open files, the stolen truth. "Then we're running out of time," he said softly.
"Running out for what?"
"For answers," Elijah replied, his tone flat. "And maybe… for forgiveness."
He didn't look up again.
Didn't see the shadow that lingered just beyond the hallway — Clara, standing in silence, her expression unreadable as she listened to every word.
---
Starling's POV
The rain followed her across the city.
Hotel Crescent's lights blurred behind her as she drove, hands gripping the wheel hard enough to leave marks. Her mother's voice still echoed in her head — calm, steady, too practiced.
But now there was something else in the air.
A message. A threat.
If she shows up, I'll handle it myself.
Clara.
By the time Starling reached the secluded estate on the hill, the storm had turned to mist. The gates opened automatically — her mother's doing, no doubt — and the car rolled to a stop under the portico.
Inside, the house was dim and silent, save for the faint hum of a piano somewhere upstairs. Her mother sat by the fireplace, a glass of wine in hand, staring into the flames.
"You shouldn't have come here tonight," she said softly without looking up.
"I didn't come for permission," Starling replied, stepping closer. "Someone's coming for me. And I need to know who."
Her mother's eyes lifted — sharp, assessing. "Clara."
Starling's heart jumped. "So you do know."
"I know she failed you once," her mother said. "And now she's being used by someone far more dangerous."
"Who?"
Her mother hesitated, swirling the wine in her glass. "A man called Voss. He's been watching the Ashfords for years. He's the one who helped Richard take your father down."
Starling froze.
Voss. That name again.
"You know him?" she asked.
Her mother shook her head. "Only by what I've heard. He's elusive — no record, no face anyone can trace. Your father mentioned him once before he was taken."
Starling's voice trembled. "Then why do I feel like you're hiding something?"
Her mother's lips parted, a flicker of confusion softening her face. "Because I am. But not what you think."
She stood, walking closer, the firelight cutting a glow across her features. "I didn't know about Voss until recently. I was kept in the dark too, Starling. Just like you."
Starling searched her mother's face — the calm poise, the faint tremor in her hands — and for the first time, saw not a manipulator but a woman cornered by her own secrets.
"Then who's protecting him?" Starling asked.
Her mother's gaze flickered — not to her, but to the window.
A black car was parked outside the gate. Its lights off. Its engine silent.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Run."
Starling turned — confused — but before she could speak, the front window cracked with a clean, chilling sound. A bullet buried itself in the wall beside the fireplace.
Her mother dropped the glass, eyes wide. "Go, Starling!"
Starling didn't think. She ran.
Through the hall, down the stairs, into the rain that swallowed her whole.
Behind her, the mansion lights flickered — one by one — as the shadows of two men stepped from the dark, moving toward the door.
And in the lightning flash that followed, Starling saw one of their faces through the rain-soaked mirror of her car window.
A face she recognized.
A face she had painted once before — in another life, another heartbreak.
Voss.
Starling's POV
Rain soaked through her coat before she even reached the car.
Her fingers slipped on the handle, breath coming in sharp gasps as she pulled the door open and slid inside. The engine roared to life — too loud, too desperate — and she threw the car into gear, tires screeching against wet pavement.
The headlights cut through the downpour, but every corner of the road looked the same — black, glistening, endless.
Her mother's voice still echoed in her head.
Run, Starling!
The image of those men — the glint of the gun, the face she swore she knew — burned behind her eyes. Voss.
He was real.
He was here.
And he wanted her gone.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. An unknown number. She stared at it, pulse thudding.
Then she answered.
A voice — distorted, calm, chillingly familiar — filled the car.
"You shouldn't have gone back there."
Starling's grip tightened on the wheel. "Who is this?"
"You already know. You painted me once, remember?"
Her stomach turned cold.
Voss.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why me?"
"Because your fake father never learned to let go. He hid something — something I need. And you're the only one who can find it."
Starling's heart pounded. "Fake.... Did you just say fake? Anyways he's dead."
"No," Voss said quietly. "That's what Richard wanted you to believe, that's what I wanted also, but I never knew that witch is still alive."
The call cut.
Her hands trembled. The world outside blurred into nothing but rain and fear. She slammed the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on the deserted road.
Dead. Alive. Lies layered over lies.
Her father. Richard. Elijah. Clara.
And now this man — Voss — threading them all together like a ghost pulling strings.
For the first time in years, Starling felt something dangerously close to panic.
She pressed her palms against the wheel, forcing herself to breathe.
"Think, Starling," she whispered. "He said my father hid something. Then where would he hide it?"
Her mind reeled through every memory — every word, every moment before her father's arrest. The one that stuck came slow and clear:
'Art never lies. It only hides truth in color.'
She looked up suddenly, lightning reflecting in her eyes.
The painting. The one she'd stored years ago — her father's final piece before everything fell apart.
It wasn't just art.
It was a message.
---
Elijah's POV
The storm outside hadn't eased, but the tension inside the mansion was worse.
Elijah paced his father's study, the files spread across the desk now illuminated by the flickering firelight. His mind ran wild — every line of ink, every signature forming a chain that led straight to one name.
Voss.
And beneath it, another — scrawled faintly in the margins of an old document.
Clara H.
A chill slid through him.
"Elijah."
He turned — Matthew stood at the doorway again, his face pale. "She's gone."
"What?"
"Clara. Her room's empty. The maids said she left an hour ago. Took her passport and one of Father's security badges."
Elijah's pulse quickened. "Did she say where?"
"No." Matthew's tone darkened. "But she was on the phone before she left. I only caught one word before she hung up."
Elijah's jaw tightened. "What word?"
"Starling."
For a moment, the world stopped moving.
The fire cracked behind him, but all Elijah could hear was the faint echo of her name — the one he had tried to bury and failed.
He grabbed his jacket, moving for the door.
"Elijah, wait!" Matthew called. "If Clara's involved, you could be walking into something you can't control."
"I lost control the moment I let her go," Elijah said without turning. "I'm not making that mistake again."
And then he was gone — into the rain, into the same storm that carried her name like a curse he couldn't shake.
---
Starling's POV — Later That Night
She pulled into the small storage facility at the edge of the city, headlights cutting through fog. The security guard barely looked up as she passed; she still had the access card from years ago.
Her father's old collection was stored here — crates of paintings no one had seen since the arrest.
The room smelled of dust and turpentine, the air thick with memories she wished she could burn.
She found it almost immediately — the painting that haunted her dreams.
A woman in red, standing beneath a storm.
But behind the layers of paint… something shimmered faintly under the light.
Starling tilted the canvas, her breath catching.
Embedded beneath the lacquer — a thin metal disk, almost invisible unless you knew where to look.
She reached for a blade, carefully slicing the corner. The disk slipped free, cold and heavy in her hand.
A drive.
Unmarked.
Before she could think, headlights flashed outside.
Starling froze.
Footsteps echoed. Slow. Confident. Coming closer.
Then — a voice she hadn't heard in years.
"You never could stay away from ghosts, could you?"
Starling turned, every nerve in her body tightening — and there he was, standing in the doorway, rain dripping from his coat.
Elijah.
Their eyes met — shock, anger, and something painfully familiar caught between them.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
The storm outside raged on.