The car came to a halt by the front steps. One of the men hurried to open Cierra's door while the other moved to retrieve her luggage from the trunk. The doors to the Thorne mansion opened before Cierra reached them. The butler stepped aside respectfully as she crossed the threshold. Behind her, her suitcase rolled softly. The familiar scent of the estate—cedarwood polish and faint cigar smoke—struck her at once.
Inside, everything was immaculate. The grand chandelier above the foyer shimmered faintly, casting a soft glow over the marble floor. The portraits along the walls watched her: generations of Thorne men, all with the same cold eyes. Her footsteps echoed as she stepped farther in, swallowed by the vastness of the hall.
A middle-aged housekeeper, Mrs. Layton, with gray hair pulled into a tight bun, approached quickly from the corridor. "Miss Cierra," she said, her voice low and careful. "It's good to have you home."
Cierra forced a nod. "Thank you."
"You must be tired. Your room has been prepared. Would you like something to eat?"
"No, I'm fine."
Mrs. Layton hesitated. "Your father is in his study. He asked to see you as soon as you arrived."
Of course he did. Cierra's throat tightened. "All right."
She took the elevator, and soon she was through the hall and standing before a pair of dark doors that led to her father's study. She paused, gathering herself, then knocked softly.
"Come in," her father called from inside.
She pushed the door open. Her father sat behind his vast mahogany desk, a glass of untouched whiskey beside a pile of documents. She saw glass cases lining the walls, displaying relics from his long career: awards, framed headlines, even a ceremonial sword gifted to him by a foreign official. He hadn't changed much. His hair was now more silver than gray, but his posture was as rigid as ever—back straight, eyes sharp.
For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze flicked over her as if taking stock—her tired face, her travel-wrinkled coat, the shadows beneath her eyes.
"You look older," he said finally.
Cierra almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "It's been two years."
He gestured for her to sit. "I didn't think it would be this way," he said, his eyes dropping to his desk. "Leo was… careful."
The name hit her like a physical ache. "What happened?" she asked quietly.
Arthur's jaw clenched. "You have seen the reports."
"I have seen rumors," she said. "I want to hear it from you."
For the first time, his eyes met hers, and in them she saw not grief, but exhaustion held tightly in control. "There was an accident on the coastal highway. The police say it was late. He lost control on the curve. He—" His voice faltered briefly before hardening again. "They say it was quick."
Cierra shook her head. "That doesn't sound like him."
Arthur's expression didn't change. "People make mistakes."
"Not Leo." Her voice rose despite herself. "He wasn't reckless. He—"
"Enough," her father said sharply. The single word cut through the air. "He's gone. We will honor him properly, as a Thorne. That's all that matters now."
She stared at him, disbelief giving way to something colder. "Is that what you told yourself when Mom died too? That the image mattered more than the truth?"
His silence was her answer.
Cierra stood. "You're really not going to tell me what's going on."
Arthur looked back down at his desk, fingers drumming once on the surface. "The world is watching, Cierra. Every paper, every channel. I need you to behave accordingly. No interviews. No statements. No speculation. Understood?"
Her nails dug into her palms. "You think I care about headlines right now?"
"I think you should."
The words fell like stones.
She turned away, unable to look at him any longer. "I'm going to my room."
He didn't stop her. Didn't say her name.
As she stepped into the hall again, she realized her hands were shaking. She closed the door behind her and pressed her back against it, eyes burning.
The Thorne mansion stretched around her like a museum—perfectly preserved, perfectly lifeless. She started walking, her footsteps soft on the carpeted floor, past the rows of closed doors that hid too many memories.
When she reached the staircase that led to the upper floor, she hesitated. Leo's room was at the end of the east hall—the one their father never went down anymore.
Something in her chest pulled her that way.
The corridor leading to Leo's room was dim, the curtains half-drawn, dust motes floating in thin sunlight. Everything smelled faintly of wood and old air. Her steps slowed as she reached his door.
It was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open carefully.
The sight took her breath away.
Leo's room looked exactly as it had two years ago, as if time had stopped the day he left for his trip. The navy bedspread still rumpled, the books stacked by the window seat, the half-finished model engine on his desk. Even the sneakers by the dresser looked ready to be worn.
A thin layer of dust coated the shelves, catching the light in a soft haze. On the wall above the bed, photos were pinned—a younger Cierra and Leo at the beach with their mother holding them both. The sunlight caught in her hair.
Cierra stepped inside slowly, afraid to disturb the stillness. Her hand brushed the edge of the desk. The wood was smooth and cold.
On the desk lay his old notebooks, pages filled with sketches and lines of calculations. She flipped one open. His handwriting was restless, alive—equations merging with doodles of flight wings, circuitry diagrams, even lyrics to songs he never finished.
"God, Leo…" she whispered. "What were you working on?"
Her gaze caught on the desk drawer. It was slightly open, as if someone had gone through it recently.
She pulled it open fully. Inside, everything was neatly arranged: pens, a wristwatch, a bundle of receipts. But on the right side, there was a rectangular gap in the felt lining—the shape of something small that had once been there.