The Wrong Man to Love

CHAPTER TWO

The study door opened.

I stopped breathing.

My father stood there. For a second, neither of us moved. Then his eyes dropped to the glass in my hand, water still sloshing from where I'd nearly dropped it.

"What are you doing downstairs?"

"Getting water."

My voice sounded almost normal. Almost.

He glanced toward the kitchen. "At this hour?"

I shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. "Couldn't sleep."

Behind him, Damien hadn't moved. I could feel his eyes on me without looking directly—that particular weight of being watched, like warmth against my cheek.

My father stepped into the hallway and pulled the door nearly shut. "Go back upstairs."

I stared at him. "What were you talking about?"

His face changed. Barely. But I knew my father. Eighteen years of learning every tiny shift—the twitch beside his mouth when annoyed, the way his thumb rubbed his wedding ring when lying. He was doing it now.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"You said mom's name."

His hand fell from the door. "Isla."

"What happened to her?"

"Nothing happened."

"You just said—"

"Enough."

The word cracked through the hallway. I flinched. My father looked away first, and that scared me more than his anger—Richard Morgan never looked away first.

He lowered his voice. "Your mother is dead. Whatever you think you heard tonight, leave it alone."

"Then why were you talking about her?"

He didn't answer.

I looked past him. Damien stood beside the desk, sleeves still rolled up. Not angry anymore. Watching my father. Then me. Like there was a conversation happening between three people and I'd missed the invitation.

I turned toward him. "Did you know my mother?"

My father's face tightened.

Damien didn't answer immediately. "Go upstairs, Isla."

Not Mr. Carter. Not even a warning. Just my name, rough in his mouth.

I hated how much that unsettled me. The way my stomach dipped. "You knew her."

His eyes held mine. Dark. Steady. "Go upstairs."

I walked away before either could say anything else. My bare feet silent on the carpet. Heart hammering against my ribs.

I didn't sleep. By morning, my phone had fallen onto the floor, screen still glowing with notifications I'd never checked. Curtains open. Gray light spilled across the room, making everything look washed out, temporary.

Sienna sat cross-legged on the other bed, eating toast. She looked at me. "You look like shit."

"Good morning to you too."

She held out another piece. I took it. "Thanks."

She watched me chew. Too carefully. "You okay?"

I nodded. Too quickly.

Her eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You've said nothing twice."

I looked down at the toast. Crust was burnt. I scraped it with my thumbnail, flakes falling onto the duvet. "Heard my dad and yours arguing last night."

Sienna stopped chewing. "What?"

"About my mother."

The room went quiet. Even the air conditioner sounded louder.

Sienna swallowed. Hard. "What did they say?"

"I don't know. Enough to make me think they knew each other better than we were told."

She looked toward the window. "Isla..."

"What?"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Start digging."

I stared at her. She sighed, the sound of someone who'd been waiting for this conversation. "I mean it."

"Why?"

She didn't answer. That was becoming a pattern.

I got off the bed. "Where are you going?"

"Downstairs."

"Why?"

"Because apparently everyone knows something about my mother except me."

Sienna grabbed my wrist. Her fingers cool, tight. "Please."

I looked at her hand. Then at her face. She looked scared. Not annoyed. Not embarrassed. Scared—the same way she'd looked when we were twelve and she thought she'd seen something in the woods behind the estate.

I slowly pulled my hand free. "What aren't you telling me?"

Her lips parted. Nothing came out.

I left the room.

The library was empty. I closed the door behind me and stood still for a moment, dust motes floating through a stripe of sunlight near the window. The room smelled like old paper and cedarwood and something else—cologne, maybe, the kind Damien wore.

I went straight to the cabinets. If nobody wanted to tell me anything, fine. I'd find it myself.

I searched for almost an hour. Most of what I found was useless—old business reports, Carter Holdings newsletters, photographs from charity events where everyone smiled too hard.

Then I found a newspaper clipping tucked inside a leather folder.

Carter Heir Dead at 41.

Victor Carter.

The date beneath the headline made my fingers go cold. Twelve years ago. March 15th. The same year my mother died.

I read the article once. Then again. Mentions of a business dispute. Richard Morgan's name appeared twice.

I sat down. Hard. My father's name. Victor Carter's death. My mother's death. Three things I'd always believed were separate.

Maybe they weren't.

I turned the page. A photograph had been folded inside the clipping, creased down the middle. My mother stood beside Victor Carter. And beside them—my father.

I stared at the three of them. Then I noticed something written on the back. Six words, ballpoint pen, barely legible:

She knows what really happened.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I turned.

Damien stood in the doorway. His gaze dropped to the photograph. To my face. And whatever he saw there made him step inside and close the door behind him.