BLINDSIDED BY SEDUCTION

Chapter Six: Buried Resolve

The sun was warm on my skin as I stepped out of the hospital’s glass doors. It should have felt like a beginning, a miracle. Instead, it felt like I’d just walked into the eye of a storm.

Mark waited by the car, his arms folded, sunglasses perched on his nose like always. When he spotted me, he straightened. “Miss Matthews,” he greeted, opening the back door like nothing had changed.

I hesitated. “Don’t call Landon.”

His brow furrowed. “Ma’am?”

I adjusted the straps on my bag. “Don’t tell him I’m out. Not yet.”

His lips parted as if to question me, but he must’ve seen something in my face—some tight edge—that made him stop.

“I understand,” he said finally.

I nodded and slid into the back seat. “I’ll need to go to the family guest house. Not the penthouse.”

“The one in Rosehill?” he asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

“Yes. It’s quiet. I need quiet.”

Mark didn’t push further. He simply pulled the car into gear, and we drove off.

The ride was silent, save for the sound of tires rolling against pavement and the occasional hiss of wind through a cracked window. I sat still, arms folded tightly against my chest, staring out at the blur of the world I hadn’t truly seen in years.

When we finally arrived, the guest house was smaller than I remembered. Then again, it was the first time I was seeing it.

As I stood at the doorway, key in hand, I took a deep breath. The chipped paint on the doorframe. The uneven pavers beneath my feet. The ivy climbing along the side wall.

Memories came in pieces—Christmas visits, dusty summers, the smell of jasmine from my mother’s old oil diffuser.

Inside, I let my fingers trail the edges of the furniture, my steps tentative.

I could see now—but everything still felt new. As if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what I’d do with it.

Mark placed my suitcase in the living room and cleared his throat. “Would you like me to stock the kitchen?”

“No. I need to be alone,” I replied.

He nodded, but lingered. “If anyone comes looking, what should I say?”

“Tell them I’m still recovering. Which is true.”

His expression flickered. “And if he comes looking?”

“Then especially tell him nothing.”

Mark hesitated, then gave a small nod before stepping back out into the sunlight. The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone.

For the first time in years, I was completely alone—and I could see it all. I moved through the house slowly, pausing at every detail. The framed pictures on the wall. The chipped porcelain bowl on the counter. The faded curtains.

It was like meeting an old friend after decades—one I’d only remembered by feel and smell.

The curtains I’d once memorized through texture were a pale lilac. The photo frame beside the lamp had a small crack along the top corner. The fridge door had the same sticky note I’d placed there four years ago: Don’t forget to breathe.

I wandered into my old bedroom. Everything was covered in dust, but the sun streamed in through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor.

I ran my hand along the wooden desk, then opened the first drawer. It creaked.

Inside was a small notebook, some dried flower petals, and a velvet-covered photo album.

My breath caught.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the album into my lap. Fingers trembling slightly, I opened it.

The first page was familiar—photos of me and my mother at the lake. A birthday cake. A tiny Elara in a red dress.

I flipped slowly, recognizing the shapes and smiles from my memories. And now, I could see them.

Page after page, the past unfolded.

Until I reached the last one.

My fingers stilled.

There, slightly wrinkled and faded with time, was a photo I had no memory of ever touching.

Landon.

He was younger—clean-shaven, smiling in a way I hadn’t seen in years. His arm was slung around a man. Tall. Broad shoulders. A dark suit. Cool gray eyes.

Even in a photo, the man radiated presence.

Dante Pierce.

I leaned in closer.

Their smiles didn’t match. Landon’s was wide, showy. Dante’s was restrained, almost like he didn’t want to be there.

I traced the line of Landon’s jaw in the image. My heart twisted. How had I never seen this picture before?

What was it doing tucked away here, in a forgotten drawer in the old guest house?

The man I’d once trusted with everything—Landon—was in this photo looking like he belonged to another world entirely. And Dante, his father, had the kind of face that made you want to look twice.

Power. That was what I saw. Landon used me. Betrayed me. Humiliated me.

But Dante?

He built Landon. Enabled him. And maybe he didn’t lay a hand on me, but something told me he wasn't innocent either. He raised the monster.

I let my gaze linger on Dante’s image a little longer.

Rich. Connected. Untouchable.

But men like him always had weak points.

A plan started to form in my mind—hazy and shapeless—but alive.

Dante Pierce had power, yes. But so did I now. And I would get close. I would watch. I would dismantle everything he thought he could control.

My fingers curled around the edge of the photo album.

I snapped it shut, but the image had already branded itself into my mind.

A slow, bitter smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

This was how I’d take my revenge.

Through his father.