Chapter Ten — The Photograph
1818 Words
The Photograph
The gunshot echoed through the estate.
Amara froze.
Damian moved instantly.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
He was already running.
Amara followed.
They rushed through the corridor, past the library and toward the sound.
Another scream came from downstairs.
“Help!”
Damian reached the staircase first.
“Security!”
Men in black suits appeared from the opposite corridor.
“Where?”
“West wing!”
Damian ran.
Amara followed close behind.
The west wing was darker than the rest of the house.
The lights were still out.
A security guard lay against the wall, one hand pressed against his shoulder.
Blood stained his shirt.
“Where did he go?” Damian demanded.
The guard pointed toward the study.
“Inside.”
Damian pushed the door open.
Empty.
The windows were open.
Curtains blew in the night air.
He crossed the room and looked outside.
Nothing.
The intruder was gone.
Amara stood in the doorway.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
The injured guard was breathing.
Damian crouched beside him.
“Did you see the person?”
The guard shook his head.
“Dark clothes.”
“Man or woman?”
“I couldn't tell.”
“Anything else?”
The guard swallowed.
“They weren't here for money.”
Damian looked at him.
“What did they take?”
The guard's eyes moved toward the desk.
“Nothing.”
Amara stepped closer.
“Then why were they here?”
The guard looked at her.
“They were looking for something.”
“What?”
He hesitated.
Then whispered,
“Her.”
Amara's stomach tightened.
“Me?”
The guard nodded.
“They asked where the new Mrs. Blackwood was.”
Damian's expression hardened.
“Did you tell them?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The guard's eyes closed.
Damian immediately called for medical assistance.
Amara remained standing beside him.
Someone had entered the estate.
Someone had shot a security guard.
And that person had specifically asked for her.
The marriage wasn't protecting her.
It was making her a target.
An hour later, the estate was locked down.
Every entrance was guarded.
Every vehicle searched.
The police arrived, but Damian refused to let Amara speak to anyone alone.
She sat in the library while an officer took notes.
“Mrs. Blackwood, did you receive any threatening messages before tonight?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“Unknown numbers.”
“What did they say?”
Amara hesitated.
Then handed him her phone.
The officer read the messages.
His expression changed.
“Do you know anyone who might want to frighten you?”
“No.”
“Anyone connected to Victor Blackwood?”
“No.”
The officer looked at Damian.
“And you?”
Damian's expression remained cold.
“My father had enemies.”
“Business enemies?”
“Some.”
“Personal?”
“Possibly.”
“Did he ever mention a threat?”
“No.”
The officer closed his notebook.
“We'll increase patrols around the property.”
After he left, Amara looked at Damian.
“Your father was murdered.”
“We don't know that.”
“The woman on the phone said it.”
“She could have lied.”
“She knew about the investigation.”
“That doesn't prove anything.”
“She knew about the photograph.”
Damian looked at her.
“Which photograph?”
Amara reached into her bag.
She pulled out the picture of the baby.
Damian stared at it.
Then at her.
“You brought that with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm tired of people taking things from me.”
He took the photograph.
His eyes moved across the image.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He pointed toward the background.
Amara leaned closer.
Behind Celine was a large hospital sign.
BLACKWOOD MEMORIAL MEDICAL CENTER.
But that wasn't what Damian was looking at.
There was another person in the photograph.
A man standing near the hospital entrance.
His face was blurred by distance.
Damian's expression changed.
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“I do.”
“Who?”
Damian took out his phone.
He zoomed in on the man's face.
Amara watched.
“Who is he?”
Damian didn't answer immediately.
Then he said,
“Victor's head of security.”
“Was?”
“He died.”
“When?”
“Twenty-four years ago.”
Amara stared at the photograph.
Another dead person.
Another connection to the same day.
Another secret.
“Damian.”
He looked at her.
“Something happened at that hospital.”
“Yes.”
“And your father knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't anyone tell me?”
“Because nobody knew you were connected.”
Amara looked sharply at him.
“What do you mean?”
Damian lowered the photograph.
“I think Victor knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That you would eventually find this.”
They returned to the archive.
This time, Damian didn't stop her.
He unlocked the broken door.
Inside, the room looked exactly as they had left it.
Except for one thing.
The metal box was gone.
Amara stared.
“It was here.”
“I know.”
“Someone came back.”
Damian walked toward the empty space beneath the desk.
“He took the box.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn't want us to find what was inside.”
Amara's phone vibrated.
She looked at the screen.
A photograph had arrived.
Not a message.
Just an image.
She opened it.
Her breath caught.
It was an old photograph of Victor Blackwood.
Standing beside Celine.
They were younger.
Much younger.
Victor's hand rested lightly on Celine's shoulder.
Celine was smiling.
Not the guarded smile Amara knew.
A genuine smile.
The kind Amara had almost never seen from her mother.
In Celine's arms was a baby.
Amara looked at the image again.
There was something written across the bottom.
OCTOBER 14, 2002.
Damian stood beside her.
He stared at the photograph.
“I've never seen this.”
Amara zoomed in.
Victor was looking directly at Celine.
There was something unmistakable in his expression.
Not friendship.
Not business.
Something deeper.
“Were they together?”
Damian shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“Then why does he look at her like that?”
“I said I don't know.”
Amara turned the phone around.
“Look.”
Damian noticed something behind Victor.
A hospital room number.
214.
His face changed.
“What?”
“My father had a private room at that hospital.”
“Room 214?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That's where he stayed after his accident.”
Amara stared at him.
“Your father was injured that day?”
Damian nodded slowly.
“According to his records, he was admitted to Blackwood Memorial after a car accident.”
“What time?”
“October fourteenth.”
“What time?”
He checked his phone.
“Eleven forty-two at night.”
Amara looked at the photograph.
Celine.
The baby.
Victor.
The hospital.
The same day.
Something didn't make sense.
“Then why was my mother there earlier?”
Damian's eyes narrowed.
“Earlier?”
“The photograph of her outside the hospital was taken during the day.”
He looked again.
The date.
The time wasn't visible.
Amara whispered,
“What happened between those two moments?”
Neither had an answer.
Then Damian noticed something in the corner of the photograph.
A bracelet.
The same silver bracelet.
The one now in Amara's bag.
He looked at her.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother gave it to me.”
“When?”
“When I was a child.”
“Did she tell you where it came from?”
“No.”
“Did she ever mention Elena?”
“No.”
Damian looked at the photograph again.
The baby was wearing the bracelet.
Amara's heart sank.
“So that means…”
“It means your mother had access to the baby.”
“Maybe she was protecting her.”
“Maybe.”
“Or hiding her.”
Damian didn't answer.
Amara stepped back.
She suddenly felt sick.
For the first time in her life, she wondered whether there were things about her childhood that her mother had deliberately erased.
Then her phone rang.
Celine.
Amara answered immediately.
“Mom?”
There was silence.
“Mom, where are you?”
Celine's breathing was shaky.
“Amara.”
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“Someone broke into the Blackwood estate.”
Celine went silent.
“They were looking for me.”
“Oh God.”
“Mom, I need answers.”
“Not on the phone.”
“Then where?”
“I'll come to you.”
“Where are you?”
Another silence.
Then Celine whispered,
“I should have told you twenty-four years ago.”
Amara's heart pounded.
“Told me what?”
Celine's voice broke.
“That photograph isn't what you think.”
“What does that mean?”
“You cannot trust Victor's version of what happened.”
“Why?”
“Because he wasn't the only person who knew where the child was.”
Amara stared at Damian.
“Who else?”
Celine didn't answer.
“Mom?”
The line went dead.
Amara immediately called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Damian took the phone from her.
“She's gone.”
“No.”
“Amara—”
“She wouldn't do that.”
He looked at the photograph.
Then at her.
“Your mother is scared.”
“She has always been scared.”
“Of what?”
Amara swallowed.
“I don't know.”
Damian gently placed the photograph on the table.
“There is one thing we do know.”
“What?”
“The child in this photograph was alive on October fourteenth.”
“And?”
He pointed to the bracelet.
“And she was wearing the same bracelet your mother gave you.”
Amara stared at him.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Twenty-four years.
One missing child.
One bracelet.
One mother who refused to tell the truth.
And a dead billionaire who had chosen Amara for his wife.
Then Damian noticed something else.
A tiny handwritten note was visible on the back of the photograph.
He turned it over.
Four words.
His face went pale.
“What?”
He handed it to Amara.
She read the sentence.
CELINE WAS NOT ALONE.
Her fingers trembled.
Then another line beneath it became visible.
ASK HER WHO THE FATHER IS.
Amara looked up.
Damian was already staring at her.
Neither spoke.
Because for the first time, the mystery wasn't only about the missing child.
It was about Amara.
And the identity of her father.
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