Chapter Three — The Room That Didn't Exist
2010 Words
“Why?”
The word came out before I could stop it.
Lucian was still holding my phone.
His eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
Vivienne sat in the picture exactly as I remembered her, except something about her expression was wrong.
My sister didn't look frightened.
She looked angry.
That was worse.
Vivienne was afraid of very few things. When she was scared, she usually became angry first.
“Lucian.”
He finally looked at me.
“What?”
“You heard the message.”
“Yes.”
“Then explain.”
He handed my phone back.
“I don't know what she means.”
I stared at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to understand that I don't have an answer.”
“That's convenient.”
His jaw tightened.
I slipped my phone into my pocket.
“Who knew about your old office?”
“Many people.”
“Names.”
He gave me a look.
“You know what I do for a living.”
“I've noticed.”
“I ask questions.”
“And I don't always answer them.”
“Then we'll have a problem.”
“We already have one.”
Fair enough.
I hated when he did that.
He had a way of saying something so simply that arguing with it became difficult.
I looked at the photograph again.
“Your old office,” I said. “What happened there?”
“Nothing.”
“That's not true.”
He didn't answer.
I waited.
The road was quiet around us. A breeze moved through the trees, carrying the faint smell of dust and petrol.
I watched Lucian.
He wasn't looking at me anymore.
He was staring at the photograph.
“What's in the room?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you look like you've seen a ghost?”
His eyes lifted.
“Because that room hasn't existed for three years.”
I frowned.
“Rooms don't stop existing.”
“This one did.”
“How?”
He took a breath.
“It was my first office.”
I waited.
“I started my company there.”
That was not the answer I expected.
“You had a company?”
“I still do.”
“I thought you worked in risk management.”
“I do.”
“So why does everyone talk about you like you're some mysterious man who appears when there's a problem?”
A faint look crossed his face.
“Do they?”
“My sister did.”
That wiped the almost-smile from his face.
“What did Vivienne say about me?”
I hesitated.
“Nothing specific.”
“Then why did you say that?”
“Because she never told me much about you.”
His expression changed.
“That's interesting.”
“What?”
“Vivienne usually told you everything.”
“She used to.”
The words came out before I could think about them.
Lucian noticed.
Of course he did.
“When did that change?”
I looked away.
“About a year ago.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
I rubbed my forehead.
This conversation was going nowhere.
“I need to see the room.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“No?”
“No.”
“You're not my father.”
“I know.”
“You're not my boss.”
“I know.”
“You're not my husband.”
He paused.
“Not yet.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
His expression remained perfectly serious.
“I meant legally.”
“That's somehow worse.”
For the first time that day, he actually smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
I pointed at him.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say things like that.”
“You brought it up.”
“I was making a point.”
“I know.”
I sighed.
“Fine. You're not my husband. Therefore, you don't get to tell me where I can go.”
“I don't.”
“Good.”
“I can tell you where I think you shouldn't go.”
“And I'll decide whether to listen.”
“Exactly.”
I hated that answer too.
I turned toward the car.
“Take me to the building.”
Lucian didn't move.
“Why?”
“Because if Vivienne is there, I'm not leaving without her.”
“And if she's not?”
I looked back at him.
“Then I'll find out why someone wants me to think she is.”
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he walked toward the car.
“Get in.”
There were moments when I wondered if I had inherited my stubbornness from my mother or my sister.
That morning, I decided it was probably both.
---
The building looked nothing like the photograph.
From outside, it appeared to have been abandoned for years.
The windows on the upper floors were dusty. Several signs had been removed from the walls, leaving pale rectangular patches where they had once been.
A metal gate blocked the main entrance.
One of Lucian's security men unlocked it.
I looked at him.
“You still own this place?”
“No.”
“Then how did you get the keys?”
“I know the owner.”
Of course.
I followed him inside.
The ground floor smelled like old paint and damp concrete.
Our footsteps echoed.
“This was your office?”
“Yes.”
“You started your company here?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“Seven years.”
I stopped.
“Seven?”
He looked back.
“Why?”
“Vivienne said you started your company five years ago.”
He went still.
I felt something shift.
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have a good memory.”
“I know.”
There was that strange familiarity again.
I watched him carefully.
“Why would she lie about that?”
“I don't know.”
“You're becoming very repetitive.”
“So are you.”
I walked past him.
“Where was your office?”
“Second floor.”
We climbed the stairs.
The hallway was narrow.
There were several doors, most of them without signs.
Lucian stopped in front of one.
“This was it.”
The door was painted grey.
There was nothing special about it.
I reached for the handle.
Locked.
I looked at him.
“Key?”
He took one from his pocket.
I stared.
“You just carry the key to a building you don't own?”
“I carry many things.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
He unlocked the door.
I stepped inside.
The room was almost empty.
A desk.
Two chairs.
A bookshelf.
A large window covered by blinds.
Nothing else.
I looked at Lucian.
“This is the room in the photograph?”
“Yes.”
I walked farther inside.
The photograph had shown Vivienne sitting against a wall.
But the wall behind her had been covered with old wooden panels.
This room had plain white walls.
I turned.
“Something is wrong.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I pointed.
“The photograph was taken here.”
“Yes.”
“But the room looks different.”
“It was renovated.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
I stared at him.
“Then why does Vivienne's photograph show the old room?”
His face became unreadable.
I walked toward the wall.
There was a faint rectangular outline beneath the paint.
I touched it.
“What is this?”
Lucian came closer.
He looked at the wall.
Then at me.
“I don't know.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
I ran my fingers along the edge.
There was a small gap.
I stopped.
“Lucian.”
“What?”
“There’s a door here.”
He moved beside me.
Together, we looked at the wall.
I pressed against the panel.
It shifted.
A narrow section of the wall moved inward.
Behind it was darkness.
I stepped back.
“What the hell?”
Lucian immediately pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Elara.”
“I'm coming.”
He looked annoyed.
I smiled.
“Remember? Stubborn.”
He sighed.
Then he entered first.
---
The hidden room was small.
Much smaller than I'd expected.
There was a metal cabinet against one wall.
A chair.
A desk.
And dozens of files.
I stared.
“This wasn't in the photograph.”
“No.”
“Then why was it hidden?”
Lucian didn't answer.
I walked toward the desk.
There was a layer of dust over everything except one object.
A black folder.
Someone had touched it recently.
I reached for it.
Lucian caught my hand.
“Don't.”
“Why?”
He looked at the folder.
“Because I didn't put it there.”
That was enough.
He put on a pair of gloves and picked it up.
The folder opened.
Inside were documents.
Most of them were old.
Company records.
Names.
Addresses.
Financial reports.
Nothing immediately made sense.
Then Lucian stopped.
His eyes fixed on one page.
“What?”
He didn't answer.
I moved closer.
He tried to close the folder.
I grabbed it.
“Let me see.”
“Elara.”
“Let me.”
He finally released it.
I looked down.
There was a list of names.
At the top:
PROJECT GLASSHOUSE.
Underneath were several names.
Most meant nothing to me.
Then I saw one I knew.
VIVIENNE HALE.
My stomach dropped.
I looked at Lucian.
“What is this?”
He stared at the page.
“I don't know.”
“You knew what was in here.”
“No.”
“You recognized the project.”
His eyes remained on the folder.
“I closed this project three years ago.”
“Why?”
“Someone leaked information.”
“Who?”
“I never found out.”
I stared at him.
“And Vivienne is in the files.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His silence told me more than his answer could have.
I stepped closer.
“Lucian.”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
I laughed sharply.
“Stop saying that.”
“I'm telling you the truth.”
I looked at the folder again.
Three years ago.
His old office.
A secret room.
A project he'd supposedly closed.
Vivienne's name.
And now Vivienne was missing.
It was too much to be coincidence.
I reached for my phone.
“I need to photograph this.”
Lucian immediately shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if whoever left this folder knows we found it, they'll know we're looking.”
“They already know.”
He went quiet.
I looked at him.
“The messages.”
His expression hardened.
“Exactly.”
I lifted my phone anyway.
My finger hovered over the camera.
Then I looked once more at the page.
PROJECT GLASSHOUSE.
And beneath it—
VIVIENNE HALE.
For the first time since I had entered that building, I wasn't thinking about finding my sister.
I was thinking about what she had been involved in.
And why Lucian had spent three years pretending the room—and whatever happened inside it—no longer existed.
I took the photograph.
The camera clicked.
The sound echoed through the tiny room.
Lucian looked toward the hidden doorway.
“What?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Then his eyes met mine.
“We need to leave.”
“Why?”
His voice dropped.
“Because I have a feeling we're not the only ones who know this room exists.”
I stared at him.
And suddenly, the silence outside the hidden room didn't feel empty anymore.
It felt like someone was listening.
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