Chapter four
2614 Words
Chapter he drive back to the estate felt like traveling through a void. In the back of the town car, the silence pressed down on them until Olivia could barely breathe.
Olivia gripped her clutch, the brass key Damien had given her biting into her palm through the silk. Locker 412. It felt like a ticking bomb.
She stole a glance at William. His jaw was set, a small muscle leaping near his ear. He was staring out the window, but his eyes weren't following the scenery; they were turned inward, locked in a battle with the memory of that painting….her painting.
Why did you buy it? the question burned in her throat, but she didn’t ask. To ask was to invite a conversation she wasn't ready for. Instead, she watched the way his fingers drummed a slow, rhythmic beat against his knee - a rare breakage in his stony composure. He was rattled
When the car pulled up to the estate, William got out before the driver could come around. He held the door for Olivia, but his eyes stayed fixed somewhere past her shoulder.
"Get some rest," he said, his voice rough. "The estate manager will expect you in the morning….Tonight’s theatrics changes nothing”
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and headed toward the West Wing, his strides long and purposeful. He wasn't going to bed; he was going to drown himself in work or whiskey or perhaps he was going back to Sophia.
Olivia stood in the foyer as the chandelier overhead threw sharp shadows across the marble. She waited until his footsteps disappeared completely. The house seemed to breathe around her in the dark, watching through cameras and servants' eyes alike.
Then she turned and walked- not toward the east wing, but north.
The North Wing had been frozen in time since Julian Carthen's death, untouched and sunless. As Olivia ventured deeper, the modern house fell away, replaced by velvet drapes, dark paneling, and the smell of beeswax and old paper.
"It’s a graveyard, isn't it?"
Olivia spun around, gasping. Charlotte leaned against a mahogany pedestal with a glass of amber liquid in hand. Her silk robe hung loose, her brown hair was disheveled, and her eyes were bloodshot but alert.
"Charlotte," Olivia exhaled, clutching her chest. "You scared me."
"Hmm" Charlotte said, taking a slow sip. She walked toward Olivia with a calm gait. "You’re heading the wrong way, sister-in-law. Your wing is back that way."
"I couldn't sleep," Olivia lied, her heart hammering.
Charlotte stopped in front of her, her gaze dropping to Olivia’s clenched hand. She smiled—a sad, knowing twist of the lips. "You’re curious. I see it in your eyes.”
"William told me this wing was off-limits," Olivia said softly.
“William tells everyone everything is off-limits," She snapped, her voice cracking before she caught herself. "He's spent three years building walls around his grief. If he can control the North Wing, he thinks he can control the fact that he lived and Julian didn't.”
She moved closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He doesn't keep secrets in there, Olivia. He keeps his shame. He was supposed to be in that car, not Julian. Do you know that?"
A chill ran through Olivia. Shame. William Carthen was driven by survivor's guilt. It explained everything…..the coldness, the endless work, the walls he'd built around himself.
Charlotte gestured toward the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.
"Go on then. Go see what you find in the dark. But don't say I didn't warn you, my brother doesn't forgive trespassers”
She wandered back toward her room, her steps echoing hollowly in the hall.
Olivia stood alone. The warning should have stopped her, but she couldn't turn back now. The double doors were unlocked- careless, or maybe deliberate.
She pushed them open.
The room was part library, part studio. Moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating sketches pinned to the walls and architectural drafts scattered on the desk. Everything felt frozen in time.
Her eyes found a small easel tucked in the corner.
Her breath stopped.
On the easel sat a sketch of a man - Julian Carthen. The lines were hurried and raw, but unmistakable. She knew that stroke, the way the charcoal was smudged to create depth in the eyes.
It was her father's work.
In the corner, a date was scrawled in his shaky script: the day of the crash.
Her breath caught. Why was her father here that day? Why was he sketching Julian hours before he died? Her mother's vague mentions of "shady dealings" suddenly felt much darker.
Her father wasn't just connected to the Carthens, he was woven into their tragedy.
She reached for the paper, her fingers trembling.
Click.
The sound of a lock turning shattered the silence. Dim amber lights flooded the wing—the security system had been triggered.
Olivia froze and spun toward the door, her mind scrambling for an excuse.
William stood in the doorway.
His jacket was gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair messy. He looked like he'd been unraveling but when his eyes found her, the coldness returned, sharp and immediate.
"I gave you one rule, Olivia." His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.
"William, I can explain—"
"Can you?" He stepped inside, and suddenly the large library felt small. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my wife is exactly what I thought she was. A spy sent by her mother to dig through my brother's life."
"That's not true!" Olivia's anger flared to match his. She held her ground. "I found a sketch, my father's sketch. He was here the day Julian died. Why didn't you tell me our families were connected?”
William stopped inches from her. He smelled like scotch. He stared down at the sketch, and for a split second, his face twisted before he locked it down again. His hand hovered over the paper like he wanted to destroy it but couldn't make himself move.
"Your father was a parasite, Olivia." His eyes lifted to hers. "He was selling information to Blackwell. He's the reason Julian was on that road."
"You're lying." Her voice came out thin. "My father loved this family. He wouldn't—"
"He did." William's voice cracked. His hand closed around her upper arm - firm, not painful, but enough to make her still. "And here you are. His daughter. In my home, acting like you have some claim to the truth.”
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath. "Is that what this is? Did Blackwell send you to finish what your father started?"
"I don't even know who Damien Blackwell is!"
The lie left her mouth too fast. The key in her pocket felt like it was burning through the fabric.
William stared at her, searching her face for the truth. The silence stretched between them….not hateful, but heavy. Two people drowning in the same web of lies.
His jaw worked. His thumb pressed against her sleeve.
Olivia jerked her arm free before he could let go. She wanted to slap him, to scream that he had no right to blame her for sins that weren't hers.
He stepped back, his expression going cold and blank again.
"Leave," he commanded, turning his back to her. "If I find you in this wing again, the contract is void. Your mother will be on the street by morning, and I will personally ensure the West name is erased from this city."
Olivia didn't wait. She turned and ran, the lights blurring through her tears. She didn't stop until she reached the East Wing.
She slammed her door and sank to the floor, gasping for breath. She pulled the brass key from her pocket and stared at it.
William thought her father was a traitor. Damien said William was a liar.
She was trapped between two men who both claimed to have the truth, and a mother who could care less about her emotional turmoil.
Suddenly, the house shook.
A deep, metallic thud echoed from the front of the estate, followed by the screech of tearing metal. Olivia rushed to the window.
Down at the main gates, a black SUV had rammed through the perimeter, its engine smoking in the moonlight. The security sirens began to wail, a high-pitched scream that tore through the night.
Olivia’s phone buzzed. A new message from the unknown number.
“The first warning, Olivia. Tell Willia
m that the Nightingale wants her wings back.”
The glass fortress was no longer a cage but a battlefield.
- Writer
