Morning light spilled through the tall windows of the Vincent estate, soft and golden, but it brought no warmth to Freda's heart. The night had been long — full of restless dreams, flashes of memory, and Edward's voice echoing through her thoughts.
She sat by the window, her fingers tracing the edges of the letter Edward had given her — one of the many he'd written, never received, never read. The faded ink felt like an open wound.
How different life could have been if just one of those letters had reached her.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she said quietly.
Edward entered, dressed in a dark shirt that matched the steady calm in his eyes. Yet there was something different about him — a tension beneath the surface, a storm brewing behind his composure.
"Did you sleep?" he asked gently.
Freda gave a faint smile. "Barely. The house feels haunted by memories."
He stepped closer, glancing at the letter in her hand. "Haunted, maybe. But not beyond saving."
She looked up, searching his face. "Do you really believe that?"
"I have to," he said. "Because I didn't come back just for apologies. I came back to make things right — for both of us."
Before she could reply, a sharp knock echoed from downstairs. The butler appeared at the door. "Miss Vincent, there's a visitor. A Mr. Richard Vincent."
Her breath caught.
Uncle Richard.
Edward's eyes hardened. "He dares to show his face here?"
Freda stood slowly, every muscle in her body tightening. "He must have heard you're back. He never does anything without a reason."
Edward nodded grimly. "Then let's hear what he wants."
---
Downstairs, the grand parlor felt colder than usual. Richard Vincent stood by the fireplace, older now, silver threading through his dark hair — but the arrogance in his stance hadn't faded.
"Niece," he said, his tone dripping with feigned affection. "You're looking well."
"Uncle Richard." Freda's voice was ice. "You should have sent word before arriving."
"I thought family didn't need an invitation," he replied smoothly, his gaze flicking toward Edward. "Ah, and Mr. Blackwell — or should I say, the prodigal son returns."
Edward's eyes narrowed. "You intercepted my letters, Richard."
The older man chuckled. "Such bold accusations. I only did what was necessary to protect my family's name."
Freda took a step forward, anger flashing in her eyes. "You destroyed it instead. You took everything Father built. You let us drown while you lined your own pockets."
Richard's expression hardened. "Watch your tone, girl. You don't understand the world you live in. Your father made mistakes — I cleaned them up."
"By manipulating everyone who loved him?" Edward snapped. "You used grief and lies to keep control."
The silence that followed was heavy, electric.
Finally, Richard smirked. "You've both had your little reunion. How romantic. But let me be clear — the estate still owes debts, and the investors have grown impatient. You might have returned a rich man, Mr. Blackwell, but even your fortune won't save this place if you stand against me."
Freda's fists clenched. "This house isn't yours to threaten."
"Perhaps not," he said calmly, "but the law is. And the law, my dear, answers to those with influence."
He turned toward the door, his cane tapping lightly on the marble floor. "I'll be in touch. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
The door shut behind him, leaving a trail of silence and fury in his wake.
Edward exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "He's bluffing."
"No," Freda said, voice trembling. "He never bluffs. If he's here, it means he's planning something — something that could destroy us."
Edward moved closer, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Then let him try. I've fought harder battles than this."
But Freda shook her head. "This isn't just business, Edward. It's personal. He wants revenge — not just for money, but for control. He hates losing power."
"Then we'll hit him where it hurts," Edward said, determination flashing in his eyes. "We'll expose him. Every forged document, every stolen asset — I'll find proof."
Freda looked up at him, the spark of hope flickering back to life. "You'd do that?"
"For you," he said softly, "I'd do anything."
Their eyes locked — and for a moment, the tension melted into something deeper, something that transcended the pain.
But before she could respond, her phone buzzed on the table. A message from an unknown number:
> "You don't know the whole story. Ask Edward about Amelia."
Her blood ran cold.
Edward noticed the shift in her expression. "What is it?"
She hesitated, showing him the screen. His face darkened immediately.
"Who sent this?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she whispered. "Who's Amelia?"
Edward took a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "Someone I used to work with. Years ago."
Her heart sank. "Work with — or love?"
His silence lasted just a moment too long.
Freda stepped back, her voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me the truth, Edward. Who is she?"
He met her gaze, pain flickering in his eyes. "Amelia was my fiancée."
The world tilted beneath her feet.
"When I thought you'd moved on," he continued, "I tried to forget you. She was kind, supportive… but I couldn't love her. I ended it before it began. I swear to you, Freda — there was never anyone else in my heart."
But the damage was already done.
Freda turned away, her vision blurring with tears. "All these years, I held on to you. I waited, believed… and now there's another name tied to yours."
"Freda, please." His voice was raw, desperate. "She's part of the past I'm not proud of. You are my future."
She shook her head, her heart tearing. "You say that now, but the past always finds its way back — just like mine did."
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating their faces — his full of regret, hers full of heartbreak.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Freda said, "Maybe we're both chasing ghosts, Edward. You're fighting to reclaim what was lost, and I'm trying to rebuild what was destroyed. But maybe love… isn't enough to fix everything."
He stepped forward, eyes burning with emotion. "It is enough. It has to be."
She turned to face him, tears glistening like glass. "Then prove it. Not with words — with truth."
And with that, she walked out, leaving Edward alone in the storm of his own making.
---
That night, Edward stood at the window, watching the rain fall over the estate once more. His reflection stared back — older, wiser, but haunted.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out an old photograph — a picture of Freda from years ago, smiling under the summer sun.
"I waited for you," he whispered to the empty room. "Now it's my turn to be the one who waits."
Outside, the storm raged on — and in the shadows beyond the glass, someone watched from afar.
A silhouette.
A woman's voice on the wind.
Amelia had returned.