Between The Secrets

Fractured Lines

Katalina’s POV

The penthouse is quiet when I open my eyes , sunlight slicing through the glass walls . My phone sits on the nightstand , the anonymous text still glowing in my mind : “ The secrets start with your family . Run while you can.”

My heart races , but the room—big bed , clean lines, city view , feels like a cage . I grab my sketchbook from the bag , flipping to a new page . A family tree takes shape under my pencil : thick roots for Phoebe , my younger sister , always the favorite . My branch is thin, cracked, barely holding on.

The lines steady me , my art the only thing that makes sense after last night ; Zephan’s betrayal, Adil’s cold switch , that creepy note .

I slip into jeans and a sweater , my damp gown from the party folded in the corner . The smell of coffee drifts down the hall . I follow it to a sleek kitchen ; marble counters, steel appliances , no warmth.

Adil stands by the island , his back to me, suit crisp , phone in hand. No sign of the guy who shielded me from the storm .

“ Morning ,” I say , my voice small in the open space.

He turns, his eyes cool. “Coffee’s there. Black. We leave in sixty minutes.”

I pour a mug, the heat burning my fingers. “Leave for what?”

“Work,” he says, finally facing me. His eyes are flat, like I’m a stranger. “Schedule’s tight.”

I cross my arms. “I’m not your assistant, Adil.”

“You’re my wife on paper,” he says, voice clipped. “Act like it.”

My jaw drops. “Act like it? You flipped a switch the second we got here.”

“Rules,” he says, sipping his coffee. “No attachments. You signed.”

I step closer, anger rising. “I signed for protection, not to be ordered around.”

“Protection means listening,” he says, setting the mug down hard. “Get ready.”

“ You don’t get to order me around .”

“ I do ,” he says , voice flat . “The deal says no risks. You’re a risk if you’re alone.”

“Risk?” I laugh, bitter. “I’m not your employee, Adil.”

“You’re not,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re my responsibility now. Drink the coffee.”

I take a sip , the bitterness matching my mood . “Why the cold act? You were different yesterday.”

“Yesterday was the pitch,” he says, turning back to his phone. “This is the deal. Get used to it.”

I want to argue , but a knock cuts me off . The door opens , and a man steps in ; tall, easy smile, messy hair under a baseball cap .

“Adil , you didn’t answer my texts ,” he says , then spots me . “Whoa. You’re real.”

“Real?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Adil sighs. “Katalina, Mikail. My friend.”

Mikail grins, offering a hand. “Nice to meet the mystery girl. Heard you caused a storm…. literally.”

I shake his hand, my guard up. “Katalina Leclerc. And you know about…?”

“The deal?” Mikail says, glancing at Adil. “Yeah . I’m in the circle . Don’t worry , my lips are sealed .”

Adil shoots him a look. “Enough. Why are you here?”

“Files,” Mikail says, dropping a folder on the counter. “Board’s pushing about Liam again. Thought you’d want these.”

Adil flips it open, his jaw tight. “They’re moving fast.”

I sip my coffee, watching them. “Who’s Liam?”

“Cousin,” Mikail says, leaning against the counter. “Thinks he’s next in line for Adil’s throne.”

“Throne?” I ask, my hand itching to sketch this.

“His company,” Mikail says. “Big money, bigger egos. That’s why you’re here , right ? To shut them up .”

Adil’s eyes flick to me, cold. “Don’t talk about it.”

Mikail raises his hands. “Sorry, man. Just saying… she’s gotta know the stakes.”

I set my mug down. “I know enough. My family’s trying to scare me with notes and hospital calls.”

Mikail whistles. “Notes? That’s new.”

Adil glares. “Drop it.”

I pull out my phone, the anonymous text still there. “This came last night. ‘Run while you can.’”

Mikail reads it, his smile fading . “ That’s not good .”

“ No kidding ,” I say , my voice sharp . “ Who’s doing this ?”

Adil takes my phone, his fingers brushing mine — brief , but it’s something. “I’ll handle it.”

“Handle how?” I ask, snatching it back. “You can’t just… ”

My phone buzzes — a text from Zephan: Kat, they’re lying about your past. Meet me alone or regret it.

I freeze, my thumb hovering. Adil sees it. “Block him,” he says, voice like ice.

“ No ,” I say , my heart pounding . “ He’s part of this .”

“Block him now,” Adil says, stepping closer. “Or I will.”

“You don’t get to….” I start.

“ Do it ,” he cuts in , his eyes hard . “ He’s a loose end .”

I glare, but my fingers move, blocking Zephan’s number. The chat vanishes , but Adil grabs the phone , deleting the text anyway .

“ There ,” he says , handing it back . “ Done .”

“ You’re treating me like a prisoner ,” I snap , clutching my sketchbook.

“ I’m keeping you alive ,” he says , his tone final . “End of discussion.”

Mikail clears his throat . “ I’ll , uh, let you two sort this out .”

“ Stay ,” Adil says , but his eyes are on me. “ Katalina , no more contact with him . Ever .”

I want to fight , but the weight of last night ; Phoebe’s smirk , Zephan’s lies—presses down . I nod , silent, and open my sketchbook . The family tree grows ; Phoebe’s branch thicker , mine splintering . My art’s my voice when words fail .

Mikail watches me draw . “ You’re good ,” he says . “ What’s it mean ?”

“Family,” I say, not looking up. “Mine’s broken.”

Adil’s phone pings. He checks it , his face unreadable . “ Ollie’s here .”

Another knock , and Ollie steps in , carrying a flat package wrapped in brown paper . “ For Miss Leclerc ,” he says , his voice neutral but his eyes curious , like last night.

I take it , surprised. “ What’s this ?”

“ Open it ,” Adil says , his tone still cold but his eyes flicking to the package .

I unwrap it carefully . My sketchbook ; the one soaked in the storm—sits inside , pages dried, the smudged dress I drew now framed with delicate gold leaf , like it’s art in a gallery .

My breath catches . “ You did this ?”

Adil looks away. “My team. Functionality. Don’t read into it.”

I trace the gold , my fingers trembling . It’s not just functional ; it’s care , even if he won’t say it . “ Thank you ,” I whisper .

He doesn’t respond, just nods at Ollie. “Anything else?”

“No, sir,” Ollie says, glancing at me. “Good day, Miss Leclerc.”

He leaves, and Mikail smirks. “Functional, huh? Sure, Adil.”

“ Shut up ,” Adil says , but there’s no heat in it.

I flip through the restored pages , my heart softening for a second . Then I stop : a new page, tucked between mine , one I didn’t draw . A tiny baby handprint , smudged in charcoal, with words scrawled beneath : ‘Find the truth before they silence you .’

My stomach drops . “ Adil ,” I say , my voice shaking . “I didn’t draw this.”

He takes the sketchbook, his face hardening as he reads the note. “Who touched this?”

“Your team,” I say, my pulse racing. “You said they fixed it.”

Mikail leans over. “ That’s creepy . Handprint ?”

“ Yeah ,” I say , pointing . “And this message. It’s like the text last night.”

Adil closes the book, his jaw tight. “No one else saw this. I’ll check the team.”

“Check?” I ask, standing. “This is in my sketchbook, Adil. Someone’s messing with me.”

“I said I’ll handle it,” he snaps, his cold mask slipping for a second—worry?

Mikail steps between us. “Easy, both of you. Kat, you’re safe here. Adil’s got this.”

“Safe?” I laugh, sharp. “With notes and handprints in my stuff?”

Adil hands the sketchbook back. “Keep it close. Don’t show anyone.”

I clutch it, the gold-framed dress now feeling like a warning. My art’s my sanctuary , but someone’s invading it . Phoebe’s favoritism , Zephan’s lies , now this ; it’s too much.

Mikail checks his watch. “I gotta run. Kat, don’t let him scare you. He’s all bark.”

Adil glares. “Out.”

Mikail grins, heading for the door. “Call me if you need a translator for Mr. Ice.”

The door shuts , leaving us alone . I open the sketchbook again , staring at the handprint. “ Who’s doing this ?” I ask, my voice low .

“ I don’t know ,” Adil says , his tone softer for a moment . “ But you’re not alone .”

“Not alone?” I say, meeting his eyes. “You barely talk to me.”

He steps closer, his voice low. “I’m keeping you safe. That’s the deal.”

“Safe doesn’t feel like this,” I say, holding up the sketchbook . “ It feels like a trap .”

He doesn’t answer , just turns to the window , the city sprawling below . I sketch again, adding the handprint to my family tree — small, haunting, breaking the roots further.

My art’s all I have to process this ; Adil’s coldness, the threats, my family’s lies.

The intercom buzzes, sharp and sudden. Adil frowns, pressing the button.

A woman’s voice crackles through: “Adil . Open up. I came to check on you after the storm. The doorman said you carried a soaked girl in here. Who is she?”

“Who is she?” I ask, my voice sharp. “And how does she know I’m here?”

My heart stops. Adil’s face pales, his hand frozen on the panel. “Lina,” he mutters, then looks at me. “My sister. Stay here.”

“Why , what are you going to do ?”

He doesn’t answer , just heads for the door, his cold mask back in place.