Chapter 18; Open Secrets
1514 Words
The Villa, Three Nights After Berlin
The villa was too quiet without him.
Even the wind seemed careful not to disturb the silence.
Dora Trent sat by the window of the east parlor — the one overlooking the gardens she never entered. The roses were still in bloom, stubbornly so, as if they didn’t know this house had forgotten how to breathe.
Cassian had left for “business.” Berlin, he’d said.
He always said business.
And she always believed him.
But this time, something felt different.
It wasn’t the trip. It was the way he’d kissed her before leaving — too long, too desperate, as though he feared the truth might spill if he lingered any longer.
Her teacup sat untouched. The steam had long faded.
Across the table lay the book she’d been pretending to read — Wuthering Heights, a cruel irony for a woman who’d built her heart around a man she couldn’t quite reach.
“Mrs. Trent?” a soft voice broke through her thoughts.
Elise, the housemaid, stood in the doorway — young, nervous, holding an envelope. “This just arrived from Berlin.”
Dora blinked. “From Mr. Trent?”
Elise hesitated. “No, ma’am. There’s no sender name.”
Dora’s heartbeat tripped.
She gestured for her to leave and waited until the door clicked shut before tearing the envelope open.
Inside, only a single photograph.
A little girl’s bracelet — silver, delicate — resting in a man’s palm.
Her breath caught.
She’d know that bracelet anywhere.
Andrea’s.
Her mind blurred. The last time she’d seen it, it had been around her daughter’s wrist — the morning before the accident. Cassian had told her it was lost. That everything in the wreck had burned.
So how—
A knock on the door startled her.
Elise again. “Mr. Trent just called. His flight was delayed. He’ll be home tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Her hands trembled as she turned the photo over. There was a faint marking on the back — a hotel watermark. Hotel Rheinhardt, Berlin.
She didn’t know whether to scream or cry.
Instead, she placed the photo on the desk, smoothed her trembling fingers over Andrea’s bracelet in the image, and whispered to the empty room:
“Why are you lying to me, Cassian?”
The night deepened. The villa creaked softly. Somewhere in the east wing — the one she never entered — a door slammed on its own.
And for the first time in months, Dora Trent rose from her chair and began to walk toward it.
–––
The East Parlor
The corridor stretched long and silent, lined with portraits that watched her pass. The air here always felt colder — like the fire had never truly left this wing, only buried its heat deep in the walls.
Dora stopped at the end of the hall, staring at the sealed door of the East Parlor.
Andrea’s room.
The one that was supposed to have burned a year ago.
Her hand hovered near the handle. The metal plate was still blackened around the edges, though the rest of the door had been repainted — Cassian’s way of erasing what couldn’t be forgotten.
“It’s just a room,” she whispered to herself. “Just a room.”
Her fingers brushed the handle. It didn’t move.
Locked, like always.
She knew the key was in his study — hidden behind the framed photo of the three of them. Cassian always said keeping it there was symbolic.
Closure, he called it.
Punishment, she suspected.
Dora turned back, her heart pounding as she entered his study. The key was still there, cool and heavy in her hand — gold, engraved with a faint “A.”
When she returned, she hesitated again before sliding it into the lock. The soft click echoed like thunder in the stillness.
The smell hit her first — not smoke, but lavender. The same lavender Andrea loved.
She froze.
“No,” she breathed, stepping inside. “No, this isn’t possible.”
The room wasn’t burned.
Not even touched.
It looked exactly as it had the morning before the fire — the pale pink drapes, the toy chest, the art desk with its scattered paints. Her daughter’s favorite doll sat upright on the small bed by the window, ribbons perfectly tied.
Every trace of fire was gone. Every scar erased.
Dora’s throat tightened as she walked deeper into the room, fingertips grazing the edge of the dresser. She could still remember the flames, the smell of smoke, the night Cassian carried her out screaming while the east wing burned behind them. He’d told her nothing could be salvaged. That he’d ordered the whole parlor sealed off afterward — a tomb for what they’d lost.
But this wasn’t a tomb.
This was preservation.
A shrine.
“Cassian…” she whispered, voice trembling. “What did you do?”
On the nightstand sat a framed photograph she’d never seen before — Cassian standing in this same room, expression unreadable. Someone had scribbled the date beneath it: One Year Later.
Her knees gave way. She sank to the floor, clutching the frame to her chest.
Why would he rebuild this?
Why lie?
Outside, an engine hummed up the driveway — the low, familiar purr of Cassian’s car.
Dora jolted, panic rising. She hurried to the door, closing it softly, leaving the key still in the lock. Then she slipped down the corridor, her heartbeat loud in her ears, her pulse echoing with the scent of lavender and ash.
By the time Cassian entered the villa, Dora was seated by the window in their bedroom, a book open in her lap, eyes distant.
But she couldn’t focus on the words.
Because in her mind, Andrea’s room still glowed — untouched, perfect, impossible.
And she knew now that Cassian Trent was keeping far more secrets than she ever imagined.
---
Volvo Tower was quieter than usual that night.
The rest of the board had gone home hours ago, but two figures still occupied the top floor — Aston and Zander — surrounded by half-empty glasses and blueprints that glowed under the soft wash of lamplight.
Zander loosened his tie and leaned back on the sofa. “You ever going to let someone else handle the expansion contracts?”
Aston’s lips curved faintly. “You mean trust someone else not to ruin it?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Aston smirked, then tossed a file toward him. “You’re the only one I’d trust to cover my back, Z.”
Zander caught it with a slow grin. “You should frame that. I think it’s the first compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
For a while, the only sound was the quiet hum of the city below — traffic, sirens, the heartbeat of a world they controlled from behind glass walls.
Then Aston said, almost absently, “You were there when I signed my first deal.”
Zander nodded. “In that awful diner off Fifth. You bought me a coffee and told me you were going to build an empire.”
“And you laughed.”
“I still do,” Zander said, chuckling. “Except now the coffee costs four hundred dollars and the empire’s real.”
Aston’s smile faded, replaced by something heavier. “It’s not the empire that scares me, Z. It’s what it takes to keep it.”
Zander studied him — the faint shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion he never admitted to. “Then don’t lose the one thing that keeps you human.”
Aston’s jaw tightened. “You mean Aanya.”
“I mean yourself.”
Aston looked away. “Same thing.”
---
Later that night, Zander found him in the office balcony, sleeves rolled, glass of scotch in hand. The skyline stretched endless and gold beneath the night.
“You ever think about what we’d be if all this disappeared?” Aston asked quietly.
Zander joined him, leaning on the rail. “You’d still build something. You don’t know how to stop.”
“And you?”
Zander’s grin was small but real. “I’d still follow. Someone’s got to keep you from burning the world down.”
Aston turned to him — not the CEO now, just the man who’d been betrayed too many times to believe in loyalty easily. “You’re the only one who never left.”
Zander looked down at his drink. “That’s because I’ve seen what happens to those who do.”
For the first time in years, Aston laughed — short, low, almost human. “Good. Then we understand each other.”
---
That same night, when Zander left, he paused by the office door.
He looked back once, at Aston still standing by the glass, backlit by the city he owned.
In that moment, Zander almost forgot there was a secret between them. Almost.
He whispered under his breath,
“Don’t make me do this, brother.”
And walked away.
- Writer
