The Wrong Man to Love

CHAPTER THREE

The door clicked shut.

I stood with the photograph burning in my hand, my pulse hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears. Damien was on the other side of that wood. I could feel him there, feel the weight of his presence like a physical thing pressing against my sternum.

I should have moved. Should have run upstairs, hidden in Sienna's room, pretended none of this happened.

My feet wouldn't listen.

I pressed my palm flat against the door. The wood was cool, smooth, solid. On the other side, I heard him exhale—a long, rough sound like he'd been holding his breath for years. Then footsteps, retreating. The creak of his desk chair.

I pulled my hand back like I'd been burned.

I didn't sleep.

The guest room felt too small, the walls too thin. I lay on my back with the photograph clutched against my chest and stared at the ceiling where moonlight painted patterns through the curtains. Every creak of the house made me flinch.

Somewhere downstairs, Damien was still awake. I knew it the way you know when you're being watched.

I touched myself that night. Quiet, desperate, trying to burn out the ache he'd started. It didn't work. I kept seeing his hand on the doorframe, the way he'd looked at me like I was something he wanted to destroy.

I whispered his name when I came. Then hated myself after.

The morning was gray, washed out, temporary. I woke to an empty bed—Sienna had already gone down for breakfast, her side of the sheets cold.

I found the photograph where I'd dropped it on the nightstand. My mother. Victor Carter. My father. Three people who shouldn't have been standing together, smiling like they shared a secret.

She knows what really happened.

My phone buzzed.

I grabbed it, heart kicking hard.

Unknown number.

Don't trust anything they tell you about Evelyn.

I stared at the screen. My thumbs hovered, shaking.

Who is this?

Delivered. No response.

I waited. One minute. Two. Nothing.

Then another message, quick, like they'd been waiting.

She's not dead. Check the date.

My breath stopped. The photograph slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.

I scrambled for my laptop with trembling hands. I typed Victor Carter's death date first—March 15th, twelve years ago. The article mentions a business dispute, a car accident, rumors that weren't quite suicide.

Then I searched for my mother. Evelyn Morgan. Presumed dead. Date of death—

March 15th. Twelve years ago.

The same day.

My stomach twisted. My father told me she died in a boating accident overseas. But the dates aligned too perfectly, and Victor Carter wasn't supposed to have anything to do with her death.

"Isla?"

I slammed the laptop shut. Sienna stood in the doorway, honey-brown hair still damp from her shower, wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than my car.

"You're up early," she said, eyes narrowing.

"Couldn't sleep."

She walked closer, peering at the screen. "What are you looking up?"

"Nothing." I brushed past her, grabbing clothes from my bag. "Just... old news articles. For a paper."

"Since when do you write papers over summer break?"

I didn't answer. She watched me dress, her gaze too sharp, too knowing.

"You're acting weird," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You've been staring at walls since last night." She touched my arm. "Isla, if my dad did something—"

"He didn't." I pulled away, too fast. "I just need coffee."

She didn't believe me. I could see it in the set of her jaw. But Sienna has always known when to push and when to let me drown. She chose now to step back.

"Come downstairs," she said quietly. "Mrs. Bennett made pancakes."

I nodded, but I didn't follow immediately. I waited until her footsteps faded, then opened the laptop again. The dates stared back at me. Two deaths, same day, two families that supposedly barely knew each other.

Someone was lying.

I found him in the east garden, standing by the fountain, phone pressed to his ear. He was in his suit already, immaculate, cold, the CEO who crushed companies before breakfast. Not the man who'd looked at me like he was starving in the library.

I shouldn't approach. Every instinct screamed to run.

I walked toward him anyway.

He saw me coming. His conversation stopped mid-sentence. "I'll call you back," he said, and pocketed the phone.

"You've been avoiding me," I said.

"You've been avoiding me."

"I've been investigating."

Something flickered in his expression—wariness, maybe fear. "Investigating what?"

"My mother's death." I watched his face carefully. "She died the same day as your father. Same day, Damien. You want to tell me that's a coincidence?"

His jaw tightened. "Go inside, Isla."

"Tell me what happened between our families."

"I can't."

"You won't." I stepped closer. "You knew her, didn't you? You knew my mother."

His hand shot out, gripping my elbow—not hard, but firm enough to stop me. His touch burned through my sleeve. "You don't understand what you're getting yourself into," he said, voice low, dangerous. "You think you want answers, but you don't. Not these answers."

"Why not?"

"Because some truths don't set you free." His eyes searched mine, something desperate hiding behind the cold. "They bury you. Go upstairs. Forget what you saw in that photograph."

"I can't."

"You will." He released me, stepped back. "For your own good."

He walked away, leaving me shaking in the morning light. I hated how much I wanted to follow him. Hated how his touch still lingered on my skin like a brand.

I didn't see him for the rest of the day.

That night, I lay in bed with the photograph on my pillow. The house was quiet, settled into its nighttime rhythm. I was staring at the ceiling when my phone lit up again.

Unknown number.

You're looking in the wrong place.



My blood ran cold.