58
878 Words
⸻
CHAPTER 58 — BLOOD IN THE MARGINS
The file arrived without warning.
No envelope.
No sender.
Just a secure drop link on Damien’s private device—the kind only three people in the world could access. Two of them were dead.
Damien stared at the screen for a long moment before opening it.
“Sienna,” he called quietly.
She was curled on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, pretending to read. She looked up the second she heard his tone.
“You found something,” she said.
“I think Dante wanted me to,” Damien replied.
He projected the file onto the wall.
A name appeared at the top in stark black text.
ANNABELLE ROSS
Former Alias: A. R. Vale
Affiliation: Westwood Holdings — Internal Intelligence (unofficial)
Sienna went cold.
“No,” she whispered.
Damien’s jaw clenched. “She worked for my family.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“That’s impossible,” Sienna said, standing abruptly. “My mother hated the Westwoods. She didn’t even like saying your last name.”
“That’s exactly why she was useful,” Damien replied grimly.
He scrolled.
Dates.
Transfers.
Surveillance reports.
Then a final line, half-redacted:
STATUS: TERMINATED (NON-AUTHORIZED)
Sienna’s breath shattered.
“They killed her,” she said.
Damien didn’t answer immediately.
“No,” he said finally. “They let her die.”
That was worse.
⸻
Memories came back violently now—no longer foggy, no longer gentle.
Her mother locking doors twice.
Changing routes home.
Teaching Sienna how to memorize phone numbers “just in case.”
“You were never supposed to find this,” Damien said quietly. “Which means Dante wants you to.”
Sienna laughed once, sharp and broken. “So my whole life was collateral damage.”
Damien turned to her fully. “Your mother tried to leave.”
Sienna looked at him. “How do you know?”
“Because there’s a missing report,” he said. “Filed the week she disappeared. Against a Westwood.”
Her heart pounded.
“Who?” she asked.
Damien swallowed.
“My father.”
Charles Westwood
The silence that followed was deafening.
“I married into the house that destroyed my mother,” Sienna said slowly.
Damien stepped toward her. “You married me.”
“And you’re his son,” she snapped, pain spilling over. “Your blood paid for her silence.”
Damien flinched—but didn’t retreat.
“You think I didn’t suspect?” he said. “Dante didn’t do this alone. He never does.”
She shook her head, overwhelmed. “Why would my mother spy for them?”
Damien hesitated.
“Because she was already trapped,” he said. “Your father owed money. Protection. Something dark enough to pull her in.”
Reginald St. Claire
Sienna pressed her palms to her eyes.
“I defended him,” she whispered. “All these years.”
“You were a child,” Damien said. “They used everyone.”
⸻
That evening, dinner was served as if nothing had changed.
The Westwood dining room glittered with crystal and silver—false elegance layered over rot.
Eleanor Westwood smiled from across the table.
Isabelle Westwood avoided Sienna’s gaze entirely.
And at the head—
Charles Westwood lifted his glass.
“To family,” he said.
Sienna’s hands trembled.
Damien noticed.
He reached under the table, lacing his fingers through hers.
Charles’s eyes flicked down.
Then up.
Sharp.
Knowing.
“So, Sienna,” Charles said mildly. “How are you settling in?”
She met his gaze.
“My mother used to say,” Sienna replied calmly, “that houses built on lies eventually collapse.”
A pause.
Eleanor laughed awkwardly. “How poetic.”
Charles smiled thinly. “Careful, my dear. Curiosity shortens lives.”
Damien stood.
The scrape of his chair cut through the room.
“You don’t threaten my wife,” he said coldly.
Charles raised a brow. “Sit down, Damien.”
“No.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Damien leaned forward, voice deadly quiet. “You took everything from her. You won’t take her future.”
Charles studied his son for a long moment.
Then smiled.
“You sound just like Dante.”
That was the match.
Damien’s fist slammed into the table, glass shattering.
“Say his name again,” Damien growled, “and I’ll make sure you never speak another.”
No one moved.
Sienna stood beside Damien, steady now, her fear crystallized into resolve.
“We know what you did,” she said. “And it won’t stay buried.”
Charles’s smile didn’t falter.
“Neither will you,” he replied.
⸻
Later that night, Damien held Sienna as she shook silently against his chest.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered.
“You’re the woman who survived them,” Damien said. “And the one who’ll end this.”
She looked up at him. “Dante isn’t the enemy, is he?”
Damien’s eyes darkened.
“No,” he said. “He’s the mirror.”
⸻
Elsewhere, Dante poured a drink, watching live feeds from the estate.
“Well done,” he murmured. “Now the real war begins.”
Dante Westwood
- Writer
