A missing compartment.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Cierra leaned closer, tracing the outline with her fingertip. The panel was not obvious, only a thin groove beneath the false bottom of Leo's desk drawer. When she pressed against it, the wood gave a faint click. A small, rectangular cavity was revealed. Empty.
It looked like the slot for a flash drive.
Her throat tightened. "What were you trying to tell me, Leo?" she whispered.
The study around her seemed to draw in closer, heavy with silence. The air smelled faintly of cedar polish and old paper. The curtains shifted against the draft leaking through the window frame, their movement slow and deliberate, as if the house itself were breathing.
Her eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the gardens stretched in muted shades of gray. The fountains, usually glittering under daylight, were still, their water frozen by the chill wind off the bay. Somewhere downstairs, faint voices murmured, staff whispering perhaps, or reporters gathering beyond the gates. The estate had been swarming with them since Leo's accident.
She turned back to the desk. Beneath the notebooks and scattered pens lay a disorderly stack of papers: handwritten letters, faded blueprints, and something that looked newer. A printed schematic labeled Project Prometheus – Confidential.
The name sent a chill down her spine.
She did not know what it meant, but she recognized the watermark faintly pressed into the corner, the crest of Thorne Industries.
Her father's company.
Her fingers trembled as it was more she lifted the top sheet. Underneath it, something fluttered to the floor, a small, folded note tucked between the pages as if it had been hidden there intentionally.
She crouched to pick it up.
The paper was torn from one of Leo's old notebooks. The writing was hurried and jagged, as if he had been afraid someone might catch him writing it.
If you find this, Cee, do not show it to anyone yet. Not even him.
Her breath caught.
Her gaze darted instinctively toward the door, half-expecting to find Arthur Thorne standing there—tall, stern, unreadable. But the hall beyond was empty.
Cierra folded the note and slipped it into her coat pocket.
Then she heard it: the faint creak of a floorboard down the corridor. She froze, listening. The sound came again, slow, deliberate. Someone was there.
Her pulse spiked.
She turned toward the window and peered out. Movement flickered beyond the gates—black cars lining the drive, camera flashes glinting through the mist. The press. Always waiting, feeding on grief like carrion birds.
But the sound in the hall was not from them. It was closer. Inside.
The doorknob turned slightly, then stopped.
"Cierra?" her father's voice called softly through the wood.
Her throat went dry. "Yes?"
"Dinner is in an hour," Arthur Thorne said. His tone was measured, as if nothing in the world could ever surprise him. "We will have guests. Be presentable."
She stared at the door. "I will."
There was a pause. She could almost hear him breathing. Then the sound of his footsteps receded down the hall, steady and unhurried, leaving a faint echo behind.
Only then did she exhale the breath she had not realized she was holding.
She shoved the papers back into the drawer and closed it quickly. Her reflection in the window looked pale and uncertain, her green eyes darker in the dim light. Behind her, the grand chandelier in the hall cast faint streaks of gold across the floorboards, fractured like glass.
Something was missing. Something Leo had meant her to find.
And someone, perhaps even her father, already knew.
Cierra sank onto the edge of the bed, gripping the folded notes tightly. The house around her felt colder now, as if every wall were listening.
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, streaking the window like faint lines of ink.
Downstairs, a door slammed, sharp and final.
From somewhere deep within the house, a man's voice murmured—too low to make out, but clear enough to send a tremor through her chest.
She stood slowly, the weight of the notes in her pocket like lead.
Tomorrow, she told herself, she would go back to Leo's desk when no one was watching. She needed to know what he had been hiding.
But that resolution did not survive the night.
The storm rolled in after midnight.
Rain lashed the windows, driven by wind that howled across the bay. The chandelier lights had been dimmed, the halls cloaked in shadow. Most of the staff had gone to bed. Only the night guards remained, their footsteps echoing faintly through the marble corridors.
Cierra lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Every sound—the distant rumble of thunder, the ticking of the grandfather clock—scraped at her nerves. The image of the empty compartment in Leo's desk would not leave her mind.
What if he had hidden something else?
She rose quietly, pulling on her coat. The notes rustled in the pocket, whispering like restless ghosts. She slipped into her slippers and eased the door open.
The corridor stretched before her, long and dark, lined with portraits of ancestors who seemed to watch her pass. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight, and she winced at every sound.
At the far end, the study door loomed.
She reached for the handle and hesitated. A faint light flickered under the door, golden and shifting.
Someone was inside.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stepped back into the shadows, listening. Voices—two of them, low and urgent.
"…the drive is gone," a man said. His voice was tight, anxious.
Arthur's voice replied, cool and deliberate. "Then find it. Before she does."
Cierra's blood ran cold.
"Sir, with the press around—"
"I do not care," Arthur hissed. "Prometheus cannot leak. Do you understand me? Not a word. Not a trace."
A silence followed, then the faint rustle of papers.
"What about the girl?" the other man asked.
"She knows nothing. And she will not." Arthur's voice lowered. "I will see to that myself."
Cierra's knees nearly gave way.
She pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself, forcing her breath to stay silent. The voices faded after a moment, followed by footsteps crossing the room. Then the door opened.
She darted into the alcove by the stairs, holding her breath as Arthur and another man—one of the company's security officers, she thought—stepped into the hall. Arthur's expression was carved in shadow, his silver hair gleaming faintly under the chandelier.
They passed her hiding place without a glance.
Only when their footsteps vanished down the stairs did she move again.
The study door was still ajar.
Cierra slipped inside.
The air was heavy with the scent of burnt paper. Someone had been at the fireplace. Ash clung to the grate, and a few blackened fragments of documents smoldered faintly, their edges curling inward. She grabbed the fire poker and nudged one piece closer. Words glowed faintly in the embers.
Subject access authorized: Prometheus prototype…
Her pulse raced.
She turned to Leo's desk. The papers were gone. Only the empty drawer remained, its false bottom still half open. But something new caught her eye—a faint scratch on the floorboards beneath the desk. She knelt, tracing it with her fingers.
The floor shifted slightly under her touch. A hidden latch clicked.
A panel lifted.