Chapter 9: The Shattered Wing
The west wing was locked.
Not just with a key—but with a coded panel, sealed hinges, and the kind of reinforced door usually found in bunkers, not estates.
Elara found it by accident.
Or maybe not. Maybe Caelum had wanted her to.
She'd been pacing the second floor, trying to calm the adrenaline from the greenhouse, when she noticed the hallway changed past the last guest room. The wallpaper was darker. The lights dimmer. The air thicker.
At the end: a steel-reinforced door, nearly flush with the wall.
No handle. Just a fingerprint reader.
She didn't hesitate.
She pressed her thumb to the panel.
It blinked red.
"Access denied."
But the frame of the panel was loose. Barely. She pried it up with the end of a decorative hairpin she still had tucked in her coat.
Underneath: a reset switch. A bypass port. A crude vulnerability—hidden in luxury.
Exactly the kind of flaw Celine would've noticed.
She pulled a pin from her pocket, twisted the reset, and hit the port.
The door clicked.
Heavy.
Final.
It opened inward.
And the air hit her like a memory.
It wasn't dust or rot that filled the sealed room. It was preservation. The room was a shrine. Velvet drapes. Mahogany vanity. A single mirror framed in gold. A canopy bed untouched by time.
Caelum's mother.
She recognized the woman from old magazine profiles and gala photos. Her face appeared in oil on the wall: sharp-cheeked, dark-haired, luminous.
Beneath the painting, on a table of white marble, were preserved objects. Jewelry. A lace glove. A half-empty perfume bottle.
And tucked into the corner of the vanity mirror—a photograph.
Elara stepped forward.
Her breath caught.
Celine.
And Richard Blackthorn.
But not just together.
Smiling. Holding hands.
And in the background, almost out of frame—
Caelum.
Watching.
Not a child. Not a boy.
A man.
Expression unreadable.
Not shocked. Not angry.
Knowing.
Elara's fingers hovered just above the photo.
She didn't touch it.
Not yet.
Because the silence in the room wasn't passive.
It felt curated.
Like someone had chosen exactly what should remain here—and what shouldn't. Nothing in the room was coated in dust. The bed had been made within the last week. The perfume bottle had been used recently.
She turned slowly.
Every wall was lined with echoes of one woman's life.
But it wasn't grief that lived here.
It was obsession.
On the vanity mirror, something caught her eye.
A smudge—no, a word.
She leaned closer, breath fogging the glass.
Celine.
It was written faintly in the corner, in lipstick.
A dark plum shade. Half-faded. Still legible.
She stepped back.
That name didn't belong here. Not in this room. Not unless—
Unless Caelum's mother had written it.
Or someone wanted her to think she had.
The photo sat beside a stack of old newspaper clippings. All carefully folded. All headlines about Richard Blackthorn.
Not about his business.
About his downfall.
"Industrial Saboteur," one read. "Allegations of Coercion," said another. And then: "Death of a Titan—Blackthorn Legacy Ends in Fire."
But one had been underlined.
"Family Scandal May Be Rooted in Illicit Affair."
Elara picked up the clipping.
The date matched the week of her sister's accident.
The photo, the lipstick, the headlines—someone had been stitching together a story long after the players had disappeared from the stage.
She turned back toward the door.
She needed to find Caelum.
But more than that—she needed to know how much of this room was hers now, too.
Because Celine had stood in this space.
And something here had broken her.
The door shut behind her with a soft click, sealing the past away once again. Elara's pulse raced as she turned down the hallway, clutching the photo and the newspaper clipping. She needed answers. And only one person in this house could give them to her.
Caelum.
She found him in the library, leaning against the polished walnut shelves, his face unreadable. He looked up as she entered, his expression flickering with a hint of curiosity—like a man who knew exactly what he'd been caught doing, but was waiting for the right moment to acknowledge it.
"I was wondering when you'd come," he said, his voice smooth, yet there was an edge to it. He hadn't been expecting her, but he had been waiting.
Elara stood tall, not allowing her hand to shake as she held out the photograph.
"Explain this," she demanded, her voice cutting through the silence.
Caelum's eyes darkened. He didn't take the photo right away. Instead, his gaze flickered to it briefly, then to her. "That's an old picture," he said, his tone neutral. "From a time before you knew us."
Before she could speak, he continued, his words slow, deliberate.
"Celine... she never should've gotten involved in this."
Elara's heart hammered in her chest. "Involved in what? What was she trying to uncover, Caelum? What are you hiding?"
He sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "You don't understand, Elara. You have no idea what it's like to be a part of a family like mine. The pressure, the expectations. It's not just money, it's... power. The kind of power that makes everything you touch dangerous."
His eyes locked onto hers, cold and intense. "My mother didn't just want to be rich. She wanted to control everything. Even death."
"Celine knew about this," Elara said, her voice barely a whisper. "She was learning from your mother, wasn't she? Your family has been playing with poison for generations."
Caelum didn't deny it. "Yes."
Elara's breath caught in her throat. "But why? Why did she get involved? Why didn't you stop her?"
His jaw clenched, his gaze hardening. "Celine wanted to prove something. She thought she could beat us at our own game. But she didn't understand the consequences. She didn't understand that the Blackthorn legacy doesn't just take from others—it takes from us. It consumes us."
Elara shook her head. "So you just let her get wrapped up in this mess? You let her play a dangerous game, knowing it would destroy her?"
"I tried to warn her," Caelum said, his voice low. "But Celine... she was never someone who could just stop."
He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers. "And now you're here, asking all the right questions. But you're not going to like the answers."
Elara's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
"Celine was digging too deep," Caelum said quietly. "She was getting too close to the truth. The truth that my family's legacy—everything we built—wasn't just founded on wealth. It was founded on secrets. And the biggest secret of all is buried somewhere in this house. In a place no one talks about."
"And where is that?" Elara demanded.
Caelum didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for a glass of whiskey on the nearby table, his fingers brushing the rim before he met her eyes again. "I can't tell you," he said finally. "Not yet. But I will. When the time comes."
Elara's heart twisted with frustration. "How much more are you hiding? How much longer do I have to play along with this? I'm done with games, Caelum."
He set the glass down with a quiet clink and stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You think you're done with the game. But the game is far from over."
Elara didn't respond, her mind racing, trying to process everything she had just learned. Celine had been chasing the same answers she had—looking for the truth, no matter how dangerous it was. And now Elara was caught in the same trap. But the more she learned, the less she understood.
The deeper the mystery went, the more it felt like she was losing her grip on reality.
She had to find the truth.
She had to find the place Caelum was hiding.
She waited until night fell.
Caelum vanished again—into the estate's depths, or into one of the countless rooms he never offered to show her. Alec had retired early, or so he claimed. The house quieted into that oppressive stillness again.
Elara returned to the sealed wing.
This time, she moved with purpose.
The photo. The lipstick. The preserved bed. The missing names and the lies wrapped in silk. It was all leading her somewhere. And if Caelum wouldn't tell her where—she would tear the house apart until it answered for him.
She stepped inside the preserved room and closed the door behind her.
The perfume on the dresser still clung faintly to the air. The vanity mirror reflected her face—and behind her, the room's sharp geometry.
But now she noticed something else.
The mirror wasn't fixed.
She touched the corner. It wobbled, just slightly.
Her fingers found a small latch behind the upper frame. Invisible to the eye. She slid it sideways.
The mirror clicked.
Swung open.
Behind it: a narrow door.
Barely taller than she was. Wood. Seamless. Locked with a vertical bolt that had no keyhole—only a small fingerprint plate.
She hesitated.
Then pressed her thumb against the sensor.
Nothing.
She tried again. Her pulse was fast enough to taste.
Still nothing.
She pulled back, about to step away—
—and then remembered the lipstick.
Dark plum.
Still smeared on the mirror edge.
She took it, uncapped it.
Pressed it against her finger.
Then tried again.
The sensor lit green.
Click.
The door opened.
A staircase descended behind it. Narrow. Steep. Choked in shadow.
Elara's breath caught as she stepped inside.
The air shifted.
Cool.
Stagnant.
And thick with something that didn't belong in a home.
She didn't need light to feel what waited at the bottom.
She only needed memory.
Because every step she took now felt like retracing someone else's fall.
The stairs creaked under her weight.
Each one felt like a trespass.
The air grew colder as she descended, until the silence became so thick it pressed against her ears. Her hand skimmed the wall, fingers brushing stone—raw and old, like the bones of the house itself.
At the bottom, a single door.
Metal. Industrial. No handle—just a push plate.
She hesitated.
Then pressed it.
The door opened into a room lit by low amber bulbs.
Small. Rectangular. Every wall lined with cabinets and file drawers. A table stood at the center, its surface cluttered with papers, notebooks, photographs—everything that should've been buried and burned.
But wasn't.
It wasn't a storage room.
It was an archive.
A shrine to secrets.
Elara stepped inside.
The first photo she picked up showed Richard Blackthorn—not at a gala, not at a boardroom podium—but in a lab coat. Standing beside a table full of beakers and handwritten ledgers.
Beside him: a young woman.
Not Caelum's mother.
Someone else.
Noted on the back: S. Moreau – Formula Trial 3C.
Elara turned to the open drawers.
Inside: medical records. Confidential reports. Letters marked "CLASSIFIED" in bold across the top.
She flipped through them until one name froze her hand.
Celine Quinn.
The folder wasn't thick. Just four documents.
But they told her everything.
A signed NDA.
A payment record.
A trial enrollment form.
And a report dated one week before the accident:
"Subject Q. has exceeded baseline expectations. Cognitive absorption at 94%. Emotional detachment incomplete. Subject has requested early withdrawal. Permission denied."
Elara's throat closed.
Her fingers trembled.
Her sister hadn't been an outsider.
She'd been a participant.
Willing—or manipulated—it didn't matter.
She'd been part of the legacy.
And when she tried to leave—
The sound of footsteps above snapped her back.
Heavy. Deliberate.
Someone was coming.
Elara stuffed the documents into her coat.
And turned off the light.