The sea roared louder that night.
Not with waves crashing against the cliffside—but with whispers, like voices tangled in the wind, beckoning Elara from her sleep. She jolted awake in the master bedroom of the Sterling estate, drenched in a cold sweat. The same dream again: her mother's face, pale and desperate, mouthing silent words she could never hear.
Elara sat up and pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Something had changed. The air smelled of brine and something older—like old ink and burned paper. It was suffocating.
She didn't realize she was clutching her locket until she felt the sharp edge of the broken hinge press into her palm. The locket, which had once held her mother's picture, now felt heavier—almost as if it carried more than just memory.
Knock. Knock.
A soft tapping echoed through the corridor. It was nearly midnight.
She padded barefoot toward the front door, her silk robe billowing behind her. The grand hallway was silent except for the rustling of the wind through the windows. As she reached the foyer, she hesitated. No one in their right mind would visit the estate at this hour.
Unless they weren't in their right mind.
She opened the door slowly, and there—on the doormat—sat a brown envelope. Weathered, sealed with red wax. No footprints. No sign of anyone on the porch.
She picked it up carefully and shut the door.
Back inside, Elara lit the desk lamp in the study and sat at the leather chair once owned by Benjamin Sterling himself. The envelope bore no address. Only her name.
Miss Elara Whitmore.
Her fingers trembled as she cracked the wax seal. Inside was a folded letter, the paper yellowed and brittle, its ink faded but legible. It was written in her mother's handwriting.
Her heart stopped.
My dearest Elara,
If you are reading this, then the past I tried so hard to bury has clawed its way back to you. Forgive me—for the lies, the silence, the decisions I made out of desperation.
There is more to your father's death than I ever told you. And more to the Sterling family than you've been led to believe.
Do not trust them. Not even him.
The truth lies beneath the lighthouse.
Love always,Mama
Elara blinked, rereading it over and over. Her hands shook as she dropped the letter onto the desk.
The lighthouse.
Her mind raced. That crumbling structure by the cliff's edge had stood abandoned for decades. Sterling family legend claimed it was haunted—that it once served as a watchtower in times of war, but no one had dared go near it in years. It was where her father had supposedly slipped to his death when she was ten.
But now… her mother's warning turned that memory on its head.
"Do not trust them. Not even him."
Her pulse quickened. Was that warning about Cassian?
As if summoned by her thoughts, a knock rang out again—this time, from the back door.
She nearly screamed.
But before panic could settle, she heard a familiar voice.
"Elara. It's me."
Cassian.
She rushed to the kitchen and opened the door. He stood there in the moonlight, soaked from the sudden drizzle, his jaw tight with something unreadable.
"I had to see you," he said, stepping inside. "I couldn't sleep. I had this feeling—like something was wrong."
She studied him in the dim light. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, and his eyes—those unreadable sea-glass eyes—watched her carefully.
"You're not wrong," she said, stepping aside and leading him into the study.
When he saw the letter, his expression darkened. "Where did you get this?"
"It was left at the door tonight," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "It's her handwriting, Cassian. I'd know it anywhere."
He picked up the letter with care, scanning it with a practiced eye. "This… this changes everything."
"You knew something," she accused, voice trembling. "All this time—you've been hiding something. Haven't you?"
Cassian didn't deny it.
Instead, he sat down, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. "Your mother and my father—Benjamin Sterling—weren't just business partners. They were caught in something much deeper. A cover-up. One that started long before either of us were born."
Elara's head spun. "A cover-up?"
Cassian nodded slowly. "There was a deal gone wrong. Land. Money. And when your father tried to pull out… he disappeared. Officially, he fell off the cliffs during a storm. But some say he was pushed."
Elara's knees buckled and she sat down beside him. "My mother knew."
"She must've," he said. "That's why she fled. Why she took you and disappeared."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"I think the answers are under that lighthouse," he said.
Elara looked at him sharply. "Then let's go. Tonight."
He hesitated. "It could be dangerous."
"I don't care."
He gave her a long look, then nodded once.
"Then we go now."
—
The cliffs loomed like jagged teeth as they approached the old lighthouse. Its once-proud silhouette now sagged with decay, rust crawling up its metal frame like ivy. The wind screamed around them as they pushed through the iron gate and made their way toward the sealed entrance.
Cassian pulled a flashlight from his coat, illuminating the rusted bolts and moss-covered doorframe.
"Help me with this," he said.
Together, they pried the door open with a groan of protest. Dust and mildew hit them like a wave.
Inside, the spiral staircase was half-collapsed, and the floor creaked beneath their feet. Every step was a gamble. But at the far end of the ground level, hidden behind a fallen cabinet, was a trapdoor.
Cassian knelt beside it, brushing off layers of grime.
"Elara… there's a lock."
She knelt beside him, reaching into her pocket. The locket.
She clicked it open, and inside—where the photo had once been—was a tiny, ancient key.
Her hands trembled as she fit it into the lock.
Click.
The trapdoor creaked open, revealing a steep stone staircase spiraling into darkness.
Cassian took her hand.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "We have to know."
They descended into the dark.
The air grew colder as they moved underground, the walls damp with time. At the bottom, a narrow tunnel opened into a hidden chamber—lined with crates, documents, and old filing cabinets.
Elara gasped.
The chamber was a hidden archive.
Dozens of ledgers. Maps. Legal papers. Photos. Most marked Sterling Holdings – Confidential.
Cassian picked up a file and flipped it open. "These are forged contracts… land sales… and this—" he held up a photo "—this is your father."
Elara stared. In the photo, her father stood beside Benjamin Sterling, both of them smiling, shaking hands in front of the lighthouse.
On the back of the photo were two words.
"Before betrayal."
Cassian's voice was grim. "Your mother was right."
Elara picked up a letter marked with her father's initials. Inside, the truth unfolded—details of a land deal that would have destroyed half the coastal village, displacing families, ruining ecosystems. Her father had tried to stop it. He was silenced.
Tears welled in her eyes. "He died protecting people."
Cassian placed a hand on her shoulder. "And now we finish what he started."
Above them, thunder rumbled.
And beneath the lighthouse, a legacy of lies began to unravel.