Aria's POV
The road was narrower than she remembered.
Hawthorne Hill lay two hours north of the city, tucked behind miles of overgrown brush and winding gravel that twisted like veins through the countryside. Aria sat in the passenger seat of Damien's SUV, her eyes tracing the blur of trees, half-numb from the silence between them.
The kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable—but unsteady. As if any word might shatter what thin ground they stood on.
She curled her fingers around the thermos resting in her lap. Still warm. She hadn't taken a single sip since they left Manhattan.
"Are you sure about this?" Damien asked, his voice quiet.
She didn't look at him. "No. But I need to go anyway."
He nodded, hands tightening on the steering wheel.
They didn't speak again until the iron gates appeared through the trees. Rusted, bent in the middle, the paint all but gone. Hawthorne Hill once arched across the top in elegant script, but now only H__ T_HORNE _ _ LL remained, the rest lost to weather and time.
Damien slowed. Gravel crunched under the tires.
"I can walk from here," Aria said, voice steady.
Damien gave her a look, but he didn't argue. He pulled over to the shoulder and turned off the engine. "I'll wait."
She nodded, opened the door, and stepped out into the chill.
---
The air here tasted different.
Clean. Damp. Like the soil had memory.
Hawthorne Hill stood just beyond the tree line, quiet and half-swallowed by ivy. The porch sagged under its own weight. The windows were dust-clouded and cracked. Still, the house looked… patient. Like it had been holding its breath, waiting for her to return.
Her boots crunched over scattered magnolia petals on the path. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, staring at the tree her mother planted nearly thirty years ago.
It was still blooming.
White blossoms like ghosts scattered across the lawn.
Aria exhaled slowly. "Still here," she whispered.
She climbed the steps and pushed open the door.
It creaked the way it always had.
---
Inside, the house was thick with dust and memory.
The air was musty—wood rot and mothballs—but it wasn't unpleasant. Just old. The kind of old that made you whisper without meaning to.
The wallpaper had peeled in jagged strips. One curtain had fallen halfway off its rod. The light filtering through was thin, like the house itself was unsure if it was allowed to remember.
Aria moved slowly through the foyer. Her footsteps echoed.
And then, in the living room, she saw it.
The trunk.
Brass-bound. Her father's initials carved into the leather—G.V. A brass latch. No lock. As if someone expected her to open it someday.
She knelt beside it, fingers trembling.
Damien had followed her in, silent, respectful. He hovered near the doorway like a man invited to someone else's grief.
"I remember that trunk," he said softly. "It used to be at the foot of your parents' bed."
She nodded. "My father kept everything important in here. Contracts, letters. Photographs."
"May I?" he asked, motioning to kneel beside her.
She hesitated, then nodded.
They opened the trunk together.
Inside, the past waited.
---
There were dozens of folders, wrapped bundles of letters, a few faded photographs. And, near the bottom, wrapped in a cloth napkin, her father's journal. The red leather one.
Aria reached for it like it was a heartbeat.
She ran her hand over the cover, then cracked it open.
> "Hawthorne Hill. My sanctuary. My shame. If someone finds this, know that I never wanted my daughters to inherit ghosts."
She read the line aloud.
Her throat closed.
Damien said nothing.
They sat there, back against the wall, reading through the pages. The writing was careful. Clear.
George Valehart had been forced to reclassify land—including this estate—as "unclaimed" during his tenure working under Elias Thornewell. He had been promised compensation. Instead, he was left with guilt, and a family legacy compromised in silence.
Until Juliette's engagement.
That's when he began documenting everything. That's when the lies grew teeth.
Aria flipped to the final page.
> "She's gone. And it's my fault. I thought protecting her meant hiding the truth. I was wrong. If Aria ever finds this, I hope she doesn't forgive me too easily. I hope she knows silence was not the same thing as love. But sometimes, it's all a father has."
Her vision blurred.
Damien gently placed the journal down beside her, giving her space. No touch. No words.
"I thought he didn't trust me," she whispered.
Damien finally spoke. "He trusted you too much. That's why he tried to carry it all alone."
Aria shook her head, not in disagreement—but in disbelief. "All those years. I thought I hated him for being distant. I didn't realize he was protecting me from the same people I'm choosing to get close to now."
Damien's expression flickered.
"I know you think I'm one of them," he said. "And maybe I was. But I'm not Elias. And I'm not Callum."
"No," she said. "But you're still a Thornewell."
She wasn't trying to hurt him. Just to name the truth.
---
They rose slowly, dust clinging to their coats.
Outside, twilight painted the sky in strokes of ash and gold.
Before she left, Aria walked barefoot across the lawn—feeling the cold earth beneath her feet. The grass was wet. The tree stood proud, its branches bare near the top but still blooming at the edges.
She touched the bark, fingers brushing over the carving she and Juliette made when they were kids.
J + A.
The + had faded.
The rest was still there.
"You were supposed to protect her," she whispered into the wind.
She didn't know if she was talking to her father.
Or Damien.
Or herself.
---
By the time she returned to the car, Damien was already at the driver's side, eyes scanning the horizon like he'd been thinking too long.
She slipped into the passenger seat without a word.
He started the car, but didn't drive.
Instead, he turned to her. "Callum forged the transfer, didn't he?"
She nodded. "He used a shell company. Backdated the sale. It's all in the deed files."
Damien exhaled hard, jaw tight.
"I'll handle it," he said.
"You'll try," she corrected.
He gave her a tired look. "He doesn't scare me."
"He should," she said. "Because he doesn't want your crown. He wants the ground it stands on. He wants to salt the earth."
Damien stared through the windshield.
"I'll take it to the board," he said. "Have them audit all transfers from the past five years."
"And if they find out you've been keeping things quiet?"
"I haven't."
"You have," she said softly. "You've just been quiet about the right things."
He didn't deny it.
---
They drove in silence.
The city lights appeared on the horizon like constellations drawn low. The kind of skyline that promises things it rarely keeps.
As they crossed the bridge, Aria finally spoke.
"I'm not coming back to the estate."
"I know."
"But I'm not done yet."
"Neither am I."
She looked at him.
For once, his eyes weren't guarded.
They were tired.
Human.
"Let me be clear," she said. "I don't trust you yet."
He nodded. "Then I'll keep showing up until you do."
She turned back to the window.
Not forgiving.
Not forgetting.
But maybe—beginning.