Twice Claimed: Bound by the Billionaire

Chapter Twelve

Sienna

“Noah.”

My voice echoes down the long corridor, swallowed by the hush of the house. The air is cool and smells faintly of lavender polish and something older - like books left closed for much too long. “Noah, wait. Please.”

He doesn’t stop at first. His footsteps are steady, purposeful, the sound sharp against the marble floors. I hurry after him, my bare feet g making uncertain beats on the chilled floor.

He stops only when he reaches the end of the hallway, where a tall window spills golden light across the walls. The curtains stir with a breeze that carries the scent of the gardens outside.

Noah doesn’t turn right away. His hands are curled into fists at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough around the edges - the kind of voice that carries too many unsaid things.

“This house eats people alive,” he says, still facing the window. “You shouldn’t go digging for ghosts.”

I hesitate. The sunlight outlines him - golden hair, broad shoulders, lean back. Tension is drawn tight across his frame. The warning in his voice should make me retreat, but it doesn’t.

“I wasn’t digging for anything,” I say softly. “I just .. found the note.”

He turns then, slow and deliberate. His gaze finds mine, and for a second I forget how to breathe. There’s something guarded there, yes - but also grief, and a flash of something hotter.

“You shouldn’t have touched it,” he says.

“It was on the desk,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean -“

“It doesn’t matter. That note doesn’t belong to you. Neither does what came before it.”

He starts to move past me, but I reach out, fingertips brushing his sleeve. The contact jolts us both.

“You and Damien,” I say. “What happened between you?”

Noah’s breath catches, the muscle in his jaw tightening.

“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to, Sienna.”

The silence between us stretches tense and taut. Outside, the breeze rattles the tall windowpanes, stirring the scent of green grass and eucalyptus into the hallway.

My hand falls back to my side, but my pulse doesn’t slow. Noah’s warning should frighten me, yet something else lingers beneath his words - sorrow, maybe. Or guilt.

“I saw the photograph,” I say quietly.

He goes utterly still.

“Of course you did.”

“Who was she?”

“What’s going on here?”

Noah steps back immediately, shoulders tensing. The air has shifted, the spell broken.

I turn toward the voice. Damian stands at the far end of the hallway, framed by the archway - no tie, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, yet every inch of him fully composed. Only his eyes betray the tension underneath.

“I was showing your wife the way back to your room,” Noah says smoothly. Too smoothly.

“Were you?” Damien’s gaze lingers on me. “And what did you find along the way?”

My throat is dry. “A photograph,” I manage. “Of the three of you. Damian, who was she?”

A silence follows, much longer than it should be.

Then, Damian says, very quietly,

“Someone we shouldn’t have loved.”

Noah exhales hard and turns away, jaw tight. “You mean someone you couldn’t protect.”

“Careful,” Damien warns.

I watch them - the jagged current between the two of men, the history pulsing beneath every word. I sense that if I speak again, I’ll break something fragile. And yet, I have to ask.

“What happened to her?”

Damien’s eyes lift to mine, dark and guarded.

“She’s gone.”