The door to Amelia's room slammed shut behind her.
She paced the marble floor, her bare feet cold against the stone, her thoughts colder.
He knew.
Somehow, Andrew had known she'd been in his study. His cryptic warning—"Curiosity is dangerous in this house"—wasn't just a threat.
It was a promise.
And now she was running out of time.
She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the folder she'd stolen—the one labeled Donovan Holdings – Liquidation Strategy. She flipped to the final page again, to the signature that claimed to be her father's.
It was almost perfect.
Almost.
The loops were too tight. The slant, just a fraction off. Her father had broken his wrist years ago and wrote with a slight leftward tilt. Whoever forged this had gotten close—but not close enough.
Her chest tightened.
Andrew didn't just acquire her father's company. He dismantled it piece by piece… and covered it up.
But why?
A knock shattered the silence.
She froze, clutching the folder to her chest.
"Mrs. Reynolds?" came a voice. It was soft, female. "Your breakfast."
Amelia quickly shoved the folder into a drawer and smoothed her robe.
"Come in," she said.
The door opened and a young maid wheeled in a cart with coffee, croissants, and fresh fruit.
"Mr. Reynolds is in his office," the maid added cautiously. "He said you have the day to… adjust."
Adjust.
To being a prisoner?
"Thank you," Amelia murmured. "What's your name?"
The girl blinked, surprised. "Clara."
Amelia offered a faint smile. "Clara, could you tell me—how long have you worked for Mr. Reynolds?"
Clara glanced at the door, clearly nervous. "About two years, ma'am."
"Was he always like this?"
Clara hesitated, then shook her head. "He wasn't always so cold."
Amelia frowned. "What changed?"
The maid swallowed. "After what happened with his brother."
"His brother?"
But Clara quickly dipped her head. "I've said too much. Enjoy your breakfast, Mrs. Reynolds."
And with that, she hurried out, leaving Amelia alone with her questions.
By late afternoon, the mansion was eerily quiet again.
Amelia walked the halls, not out of curiosity this time—but determination.
She had to find more. Another folder. Another crack.
She headed toward the east wing, where Andrew's private library was.
It was massive—floor-to-ceiling shelves, ladders, antique chandeliers. Books on law, finance, politics. Everything you'd expect from a man like him.
But tucked in the far corner, almost out of place, was a photo.
A younger Andrew, smiling. Standing beside another man with the same sharp jawline and storm-gray eyes.
His brother.
She picked up the frame and turned it over. A date was etched into the wood—five years ago.
She remembered now.
There had been a scandal. A Reynolds sibling caught embezzling funds. The younger brother. And not long after, a car crash.
They said it was an accident.
But something about Andrew's voice when he'd spoken of loyalty… the tension in his jaw…
No. It hadn't been just an accident.
Her stomach turned.
Whatever had happened with his brother, it had changed Andrew. Hardened him.
And somehow, she was now tangled in the aftermath.
She replaced the frame and turned to leave—but someone was standing at the entrance.
Andrew.
Her breath hitched.
"How much did you hear?" she asked, too stunned to hide her guilt.
"Enough to know you're not eating your breakfast," he said coolly, stepping into the room.
She watched him warily. "Why didn't you tell me about your brother?"
His gaze darkened. "Because it's none of your concern."
"I'm your wife."
He laughed under his breath. "You're my contract."
Amelia bristled. "You can't keep using that as an excuse to treat me like I'm nothing."
"Can't I?" he asked, stepping closer. "You signed the papers. You agreed to the terms."
"Under duress."
His expression didn't waver. "You still signed."
Her voice rose. "You forged my father's signature. That contract was a trap."
A pause.
Just for a second, something flickered in Andrew's eyes. Not surprise. Not denial.
Guilt.
She stepped closer, emboldened. "You orchestrated it all, didn't you? You tore down his company and then offered to save it—if I gave myself to you."
Andrew's voice was low, tight. "Watch what you accuse me of, Amelia."
"Why?" she snapped. "Because I'm getting close to the truth?"
Silence stretched between them.
Then Andrew's jaw clenched. "You don't know anything."
"I know enough," she whispered. "And I'm going to find the rest."
He took a step forward, suddenly towering over her.
"No, you won't."
Her pulse quickened.
"Why not?"
His voice dropped to a near-growl. "Because this house has rules. And rule number one is: curiosity gets punished."
She stood her ground. "Are you threatening me?"
"No," he said, too calmly. "I'm warning you."
For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner.
Then Andrew turned sharply and walked out, leaving her in the heavy silence.
That night, she didn't sleep.
Instead, she sat in bed with the folder open in her lap, her laptop beside her. She scanned every document, every email header, every note.
One email stood out.
It was addressed to a familiar name.
Daniel Reed.
Her ex.
The one who'd broken her heart three months before the scandal erupted. The same man who'd mysteriously vanished when her father's empire collapsed.
The subject line was brief: "She's in. Proceed."
Her blood ran cold.
Daniel had known.
He had been part of it.
She clicked the attachment. It was a surveillance photo—blurry, grainy—but unmistakably her. Sitting across from her father, looking confused. The date stamp was two days before Andrew's proposal.
Her phone slipped from her hand.
This was never about saving her father.
It was about breaking her.
Her entire life had been a chessboard.
And she was the pawn.
A soft knock came at her door.
She froze, her heart in her throat.
It was well past midnight.
She stood, clutching the folder, and opened the door—
Only to come face-to-face with Daniel.
Alive.
Smirking.
And standing inside Andrew Reynolds' mansion.