Chapter 13; Shadows Of The Past
1965 Words
The rain hadn’t stopped when Luca pulled into the derelict warehouse on the city’s edge — one of Aston Volvo’s abandoned shipping lots, swallowed by the sound of thunder.
He killed the headlights and sat there, motionless, his hands still gripping the wheel.
Rhea could still hear the echo of the gunshots in her ears.
Her palms trembled as she stared at him.
“Luca… who the hell were those people?”
He looked at her then — really looked. Wet hair clung to his jaw; his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them.
“People who don’t forgive mistakes,” he said. “And I made one when I started caring about someone who shouldn’t even know my name.”
The words hit her chest like another gunshot, only quieter.
He opened the door, stepped out, and came around to her side. When she didn’t move, he leaned down, voice low.
“Rhea, we can’t stay here long.”
She nodded, finally following him out.
The warehouse smelled of rust and rain, the floor slick with puddles. In the far corner, a small office room still had power — a dim bulb flickered when he switched it on.
Luca found a blanket from an emergency crate and handed it to her. “You’re soaked.”
“So are you,” she said, clutching it around her shoulders.
He gave a faint grin. “Yeah, but I look better wet.”
She almost laughed. Almost.
He sat beside her on the old desk, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. The storm outside roared, wind howling through cracks in the metal walls.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Then Rhea whispered, “I used that phone because you told me to. I thought you were being paranoid.”
“I was,” he said. “Just not wrong.”
Something in his tone softened her fear. She looked at him — really looked. Beneath the calm exterior was exhaustion, guilt, and the strange tenderness of someone trying not to care too much.
“Why me?” she asked finally. “Why give me that phone?”
His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes.
“Because you smiled at me like I was still human,” he said quietly. “And no one’s done that in a long time.”
Her breath caught.
He reached out — slow, deliberate — brushing a raindrop from her cheek.
“You should hate me for dragging you into this.”
“I don’t,” she murmured.
Luca leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost her skin.
“Then that’s the real danger.”
For a heartbeat, the storm outside seemed to disappear. It was only them — the air thick with unsaid things, the warmth of his hand lingering near her face.
Then his phone buzzed — a single encrypted ping. His expression hardened instantly.
“They’ve found another trace,” he said, standing. “We need to move again.”
Rhea swallowed her disappointment and fear.
“Where to this time?”
He met her gaze, eyes dark but steady.
“Somewhere no one will think to look — my old safehouse. But Rhea…”
He hesitated.
“Once we get there, you’ll have to decide if you really want to stay.”
The villa was too quiet tonight.
–––
Dora Trent stood by the tall window of the east parlor, watching the moonlight spill across the courtyard. Cassian had fallen asleep on the couch, one arm flung lazily over his face, the other holding the book he’d pretended to read for an hour.
She smiled faintly.
Even in sleep, he looked disarmingly composed — the kind of man who could command a room and still make her heart ache with the smallest gesture.
She walked over and brushed a hand through his hair.
“Cass,” she whispered.
He stirred, caught her wrist gently. “You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
He smiled — that lazy, heart-melting smile that had once been her undoing. “Couldn’t sleep without you beside me.”
“Liar,” she murmured, settling next to him. “You sleep through gunfire.”
He opened one eye. “Only when you’re near.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. For a moment, it was easy to forget the rest — the shadows behind their marriage, the one wing of the house she never entered, the memories that lingered like smoke.
“Do you remember,” she said quietly, “how you used to steal my scripts and pretend you were auditioning for my roles?”
“I was better than you,” he said, teasing.
“You were terrible,” she countered. “You kept forgetting your lines.”
“I was distracted,” he said, leaning closer. “You wore that red dress — the one I couldn’t stop looking at.”
Her cheeks warmed, but her heart tightened too. There was always a point in every soft moment where the air shifted, where love brushed up against loss.
She looked away, her gaze drifting to the hallway that led toward the eastern wing. The door at the end stood closed — it always was.
Cassian followed her eyes, and his smile faded.
“Dora,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to go in,” she lied.
“You never do.”
“Because you told me not to.”
“Because it hurts you.”
She swallowed hard. “It hurts you too.”
He didn’t answer.
The silence between them was heavy, threaded with the kind of grief that time didn’t erase — only dulled until a word, a sound, or a glance made it bleed again.
Dora stood, pacing slowly toward the hallway anyway.
“She’d be four now,” she whispered. “Andrea.”
Cassian rose behind her, his steps quiet but deliberate.
“She’s still here,” he said, his voice rougher now. “In everything.”
“She’s not in that room,” Dora said. “She’s gone, Cass.”
His jaw tightened. “Then why can’t I open that door?”
She turned to him then, tears in her eyes, anger sparking through the sorrow.
“Because you think if you hold onto her ghost long enough, you can keep her alive. But all you’re doing is losing me.”
The words hit hard. He looked away, hands trembling slightly — a rare c***k in his control.
She took a slow breath, softer now. “We both lost her, Cassian. You don’t have to carry the blame alone.”
He looked back at her — and for a fleeting moment, she saw something raw in his eyes, something that made her stomach twist.
“Don’t I?” he whispered.
Before she could answer, he stepped closer and kissed her — not out of passion, but desperation. The kind of kiss that begged to be forgiven, even if neither of them could say for what.
When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to hers.
“Go to bed, love,” he said softly. “Please.”
And though she wanted to argue, she didn’t.
Because she could still feel the ghost of Andrea between them — a shadow, a memory, and a secret Cassian still wasn’t ready to tell.
–––
A year ago, the villa was alive with laughter.
Andrea’s laughter.
The little girl’s voice danced through the corridors as she chased the golden retriever down the stairs, her curls bouncing, her tiny feet thudding against the marble.
“Papa! He stole my doll again!”
Cassian looked up from his laptop, pretending to be stern. “Bruno, you’re under arrest.”
The dog barked, tail wagging, utterly unrepentant.
Dora leaned against the doorway, smiling. “You’re both impossible.”
She had a cup of tea in her hands, her hair pulled into a loose bun. It was one of those days that felt too perfect — the kind that always seemed to slip away too fast.
“Come here, sunshine,” Cassian said, scooping Andrea up when she ran to him. “Tell me—what’s the punishment for a thief?”
Andrea giggled. “Kisses!”
He smirked. “Bruno’s going to love that.”
Dora rolled her eyes. “So will you.”
And for a while, the house glowed with a quiet kind of joy.
Until the phone rang.
Cassian froze when he saw the caller ID — M. Volvo.
He set Andrea down gently. “Sweetheart, go help Mama with the cookies.”
Dora noticed the tension instantly. “Cassian?”
“It’s business,” he said quickly, standing. “I’ll take it outside.”
He didn’t.
He took it in his office — the one Dora never entered, the one lined with contracts that tied him to people she would never want to know.
“Margot,” he said, voice low. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”
“You should’ve answered the first three times,” came the reply. Her tone was calm, elegant, but sharp enough to cut glass.
“There’s a problem with the Darlington transaction. The data I gave you—it’s being traced.”
Cassian’s blood went cold. “You said it couldn’t be.”
“You think I’d risk my name if it could? Someone leaked the original source, Cassian. Someone knows it came through you.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying you need to make sure it doesn’t reach Aston,” she interrupted. “Or Aanya Darlington will know who destroyed her mother’s empire before she even inherits it.”
A silence.
Then, faintly — the sound of small footsteps in the hallway.
“Daddy?”
He turned just as Andrea peeked through the half-open door, holding her doll.
“I heard shouting,” she said softly.
Cassian smiled quickly, forcing calm. “No shouting, sweetheart. Go back to Mommy, okay?”
She frowned. “You look scared.”
“I’m not,” he lied. “Go on.”
When she left, he turned back to the call — but Margot was gone.
The line had gone dead.
Then — an explosion.
It wasn’t loud at first, just a dull thud that shook the eastern wing. Then the alarms screamed.
Cassian ran.
“Dora!” he shouted, sprinting through the hall as smoke began to fill the air. “Andrea!”
He found Dora at the base of the staircase, coughing, crying, clutching her chest.
“She was playing upstairs—”
Her voice broke.
“She said she wanted her doll!”
Cassian didn’t think — he just ran.
He burst through the smoke, calling Andrea’s name, his lungs burning. The explosion had come from his office — where the data drives were kept. The fire had eaten through half the corridor already.
He reached the door to Andrea’s room — flames licking the frame — and froze when he saw the collapsed beam.
Her doll lay just outside the door.
He fell to his knees.
He never remembered the rest clearly. The fire brigade. The smoke. Dora’s screams. The silence afterward.
Just that image — of a small doll with a scorched ribbon, lying inches from safety.
And Margot Volvo’s voice echoing in his head:
Make sure it doesn’t reach Aston.
He had promised Dora it was a gas leak.
He had buried the truth — that the fire started in his office, because of data stolen from Aanya Darlington’s family years ago. Data Margot helped him obtain.
Data that got their daughter killed.
- Writer
