The ride home was silent. The air in the Rolls-Royce was charged with the electricity of that kiss, but Julian stared out the window, his jaw set in a hard line.

Back at the estate, Elara couldn't sleep. The kiss played on loop in her mind. Was it a distraction? A tactic? Or was she actually starting to feel something for the man who had effectively kidnapped her?

As she passed the laundry room on her way to get water, she saw Julian’s gala jacket discarded on a chair. A small, glinting object had fallen from the pocket onto the rug.

A silver key.

Her breath caught. She knew where this led.

She crept to the East Wing, her bare feet silent on the cold marble. The locked door stood like a sentinel. Heart in her throat, she slid the key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, metallic click.

The room wasn't a torture chamber. It was a shrine.

Sheet music covered the walls. In the center sat a cello—identical to hers, but older, weathered. On the stand was a photo of a woman who looked hauntingly like Elara.

"My mother," Elara whispered, picking up a dusty journal from the desk.

She opened the first page. The handwriting was elegant, but hurried. 'He thinks he's protecting me, but the Vane family debt is a curse that never ends. If Julian ever finds out the truth about the night of the fire...'

The door behind her creaked.

"I told you," a voice rasped from the shadows, "never to come in here."

Elara turned to see Julian standing in the doorway, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He didn't look angry this time. He looked destroyed.

"You didn't just witness a crime at the theater, Elara," he said, stepping into the moonlight. "You witnessed the return of the man who killed your mother. And he’s coming for us both."