CHAPTER 3:THE TRUTH HE BURIED

--

_CHAPTER 3: THE TRUTH HE BURIED_

_POV: Morgan Voss_

I didn’t go to my office.

I went to the room I hadn’t opened in ten years.

The west wing. The one Marta kept dusted like a shrine.

The door was heavy. Solid oak. My thumb hovered over the scanner.

One breath.

Two.

The lock clicked.

The smell hit me first. Gardenias and old paper.

Her smell.

Moonlight cut through the tall windows, painting the room in silver.

Everything was exactly where she left it.

The piano with sheet music still open.

The armchair by the window.

The sketchbooks. Stacked. Dozens of them.

And on the easel in the center of the room, covered by a white sheet.

I didn’t touch it.

Ten years. And I still couldn’t look.

The sketchpad in my hand felt like it was burning.

Vanya’s crayon drawing. Three figures.

And in the corner… the blurred woman.

_Like the lady in the garden._

My throat closed.

I walked to the desk. Pulled open the bottom drawer.

Inside was a photo. The only one I kept.

Her.

Dark hair. Blue eyes that were never cold.

Smiling at something off-camera. Vanya was a baby on her hip.

And me. Younger. Stupid. Thinking I could keep them safe by staying away from this life.

I failed.

The glass cracked under my grip.

Blood welled on my palm. I didn’t feel it.

“Boss?”

A guard’s voice through the door. “There’s a problem.”

I didn’t answer.

“Sir. Sythe Andre was seen near the university. Asking about Miss Dubois.”

My head snapped up.

The name hit like a gunshot.

Sythe.

The reason Aurelle was here.

But that wasn’t why my hands were shaking.

It was because of her eyes.

The same blue. The same shape.

Aurelle wasn’t just payment.

She was a mirror.

I threw the photo back in the drawer and slammed it shut.

Walked out without looking back.

The hallway to the guest wing was dark. Silent.

Her door was cracked open. A sliver of light.

I should have kept walking.

Instead I pushed the door open.

She was there.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in an oversized shirt.

Hair down. No makeup. No silk.

Just her.

She looked up, startled.

And for half a second, I saw _her_.

My chest caved in.

“Morgan?” Her voice was small. “What’s wrong?”

She stood. Took one step toward me.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, eyes dropping to my hand.

I should have left.

But ten years of silence was clawing up my throat.

“Don’t,” I said. My voice was rough. Broken.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know me.”

I stepped closer. Brushed my thumb under her eye.

She didn’t flinch.

“You have her eyes,” I whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

Aurelle froze.

“Whose eyes?”

I didn’t answer.

Because if I said her name out loud, the walls I’d built would collapse.

So I pulled her into me.

One arm around her waist. The other still bleeding, pressed against her back.

Not a kiss.

Just… holding. Like if I let go, she’d disappear too.

“Go to sleep, Aurelle,” I murmured against her hair.

“And don’t ever ask me that again.”

I walked out before she could see my face break.

---

_POV: Aurelle_

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy. It hummed with the ghost of him—the sandalwood, the cold iron, and the raw, jagged pain I’d seen in his eyes.

My hand went to my waist. I could still feel the phantom heat of his palm.

_“You have her eyes.”_

Who was she?

I didn’t sleep.

I waited until the house settled into the deep, dead hours of the morning.

When the hallways were nothing but shadows.

I crept out.

I went to the West Wing.

I stood before the heavy door. My heart was a bird trapped in a cage.

I didn’t have a key. But I had the hairpin from the gala.

It took ten minutes.

_Click._

The door swung inward.

Gardenias.

And the sharp, biting tang of blood.

I stepped inside.

Moonlight turned the room into a graveyard of memories.

The piano. The books. The easel with the white sheet.

I walked toward it. My hand trembled.

_Don't,_ my brain screamed.

I pulled.

The sheet slid to the floor, silent as a sigh.

I stopped breathing.

It was a painting. A portrait.

The woman from the photo. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that looked like sunshine.

But it wasn't the woman that made my knees hit the floor.

It was the signature in the corner.

Not _Voss_.

But my mother’s name.

_“Clara Dubois.”_

My head spun.

My mother had died when I was seven.

And looking at the way the light danced in the portrait’s eyes, I knew exactly who she’d been painting.

The portrait wasn't of a stranger.

It was a love letter.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I spun around.

Morgan stood in the doorway.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink on his arms.

His eyes weren't cold now. They were black, bottomless pits of fury.

"I told you," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. "I told you never to ask."

He took a step into the room.

"And I told you never to come here."

I backed up, hitting the easel.

"She was my mother," I breathed, my voice cracking. "Morgan, why do you have my mother’s painting?"

He stopped.

He looked at the portrait. Then at me.

And then, he laughed. A sound so broken, so devoid of life, that it chilled my blood.

"Your mother?" he echoed. "Aurelle, you’re wrong."

He reached out, his hand shaking as he touched the painted cheek.

"She wasn't just your mother."

He looked at me, his gaze fierce, desperate, and terrifyingly possessive.

"She was the reason I started killing."

*END CHAPTER 3*

---

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***