Chapter 8- His Secrets
1123 Words
Sophia stayed outside the study for another few seconds, straining to hear through the heavy wood. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but no more words came.
Silence.
She debated knocking, her hand hovering inches from the polished surface. Before she could decide, the brass handle turned and the door swung open.
Damien stepped out. He didn’t look surprised to see her standing there in the dim hallway. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Sophia swallowed hard, trying to recover her composure. “I heard voices.”
“There was a meeting.”
“At midnight?”
“It ran late.”
He walked past her without another word. As he moved into the light of the hallway, Sophia noticed he was carrying a thick brown envelope. Before she could read the text on the label, he smoothly slipped it under his arm.
Conversation over.
The next morning, the atmosphere at breakfast was awkward again. The sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it did nothing to warm the chilly silence. Sophia watched Damien across the long table as he quietly read through his emails.
She suddenly asked, “Who was here last night?”
Damien didn’t even look up from his tablet. “My lawyer.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“I only heard one voice.”
For the first time since she had known him, Damien hesitated. It was only for a split second—a tiny hitch in his steady breathing—but Sophia caught it.
Then, he finally looked up, his expression completely blank. “You should sleep more.”
She knew he was lying. He knew she knew. Neither said anything else, the silence stretching out between them until he finished his coffee and stood up.
Once Damien left for work, Sophia refused to just sit around the empty mansion anymore. She needed answers, but instead of snooping through his locked study and risking getting caught, she decided to learn more about Alex from a different source. She tracked down the phone number for Alex’s former personal assistant. After some convincing, the woman agreed to meet her.
The coffee shop was crowded and loud, but the assistant—Emily—was visibly nervous. She sat tucked into a corner booth, her fingers tightly laced around a ceramic mug, keeping her eyes darting over Sophia’s shoulder toward the door.
Sophia kept her tone gentle, starting with simple questions. “What was Alex working on before he died?”
Emily immediately answered, “I wasn’t involved.”
The response came too quickly, practically rehearsed. Sophia noticed the slight tremor in the woman's voice and pressed further, leaning across the table. Eventually, under the weight of Sophia's gaze, Emily cracked.
“The week before he died… Mr. Harrington asked me to make copies of several financial reports,” Emily admitted, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“What reports?” Sophia asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where are they now?”
Emily shook her head, looking terrified. “They disappeared right after the accident.”
Meanwhile, across the city, Damien sat at the head of a massive mahogany table in a meeting with the Harrington Global board of directors. Charles Whitmore sat to his right, unusually friendly. Too friendly.
Charles leaned back, offering a smooth compliment about the children's hospital event and congratulating Damien on finally “finding stability” in the press. Then, very casually, he tilted his head. “How’s your wife handling Alex’s death?”
Damien’s internal alarms went off, his gaze sharpening. He immediately became suspicious. Why was Charles asking about Sophia now? Had someone spotted her at the police station, or was Charles fishing for a weakness?
The conversation instantly turned into a subtle, dangerous game of chess. Neither man openly threatened the other, and neither trusted a single word being said, each sentence laced with hidden meanings and carefully masked warnings.
Later that afternoon, Sophia came home entirely exhausted, the weight of the investigation pressing heavily on her shoulders. She walked into the quiet kitchen, where the rich scent of vanilla filled the air. Maria was standing by the counter, baking.
Without asking a single question, Maria poured a fresh cup of tea and handed it to her. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Sophia admitted, wrapping her hands around the warm mug.
Maria smiled gently, wiping her hands on her apron. “You and Mr. Harrington are more alike than either of you realizes.”
Sophia let out a dry laugh. “That’s impossible.”
Maria simply looked at her, her eyes wise and kind. “You both carry everyone else’s problems.”
Sophia didn’t answer. She took a slow sip of her tea, but the comment stayed with her, echoing in her mind as she went upstairs.
That evening, a violent thunderstorm rolled over the city. Right in the middle of a heavy flash of lightning, the power suddenly went out, plunging the entire penthouse into pitch-black darkness. Sophia jumped, her breath catching in her throat. She absolutely hated thunderstorms.
Navigating by memory, she made her way toward the living room. Damien found her standing near the large window, illuminated only by the stormy grey sky outside.
“You afraid of storms?” his voice cut through the dark.
“No,” she lied.
Right then, a massive streak of lightning flashed, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. Sophia flinched, instinctively reaching out and grabbing his arm. His muscles were solid under her fingers.
A heavy beat of silence passed between them in the dark. Realizing what she was doing, she immediately let go of his sleeve and stepped back. “I slipped.”
“Hmm.”
“I did.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Damien murmured, his voice sounding closer than before.
She rolled her eyes, glad the darkness hid her blushing cheeks. Through the shadows, she could tell he almost smiled.
A moment later, the backup generators kicked in, and the electricity returned, flooding the hallway with warm light. Damien gave her one last look before turning to head upstairs to his room.
As Sophia turned to follow a few paces behind, she noticed something white resting on the dark hardwood floor of the hallway. It must have slipped out of the thick brown envelope Damien had been carrying the night before.
She walked over and picked it up. It was only a single page, but across the top, stamped in bold, unmistakable letters, were the words: CONFIDENTIAL – ALEXANDER HARRINGTON.
Before she could read another line, a cold voice cut through the quiet hallway from right behind her.
“That’s not yours.”
- Writer
