Ella spent the afternoon in a daze. The breakfast guests departed, their laughter fading like smoke, but the weight of the photo lingered—Sebastian's younger face, the girl's laughter, the way her grandmother's portrait echoed that smile. She'd locked herself in her room, tracing the nightingale pendant with her thumb, as if the metal might whisper its secrets if pressed hard enough.
Thorn arrived at dusk, his knock formal as always. "Mr. Black requests your presence in the drawing room for tea," he said, eyes avoiding hers. Since the breakfast, his politeness had sharpened into something like wariness, as if he feared she might pry.
Ella hesitated. The drawing room was on the main floor, far from the forbidden West Wing—but maybe that was the point. Sebastian wanted her in plain sight, contained. She smoothed the skirt of the dress the stylists had left (a deep green this time, velvet, with a neckline that forced the pendant into view) and followed Thorn down the stairs.
The drawing room was a cavern of dark wood and velvet. Sebastian sat in an armchair by the fireplace, a leather-bound book in his hands, but he wasn't reading. His gaze was fixed on the flames, which cast flickers over his jaw, softening its sharp edge. He looked… tired, for once.
"Come here," he said without looking up.
Ella stopped a few feet away, her spine rigid. "You wanted me?"
He closed the book, setting it aside. "Lord Harrington called. He's willing to pay double for the workshop—on the condition you oversee the transfer. He says a clockmaker's touch might ease the transition."
Her fists clenched. "Oversee? You mean watch him gut my father's life's work?"
"Your father's work will be preserved," he said, tone flat. "Better than gathering dust, isn't it?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Or would you prefer I let it rot? I can always cancel the deal."
It was a threat, plain and simple. Ella bit back the retort burning on her tongue. Her father's workshop might not be hers anymore, but at least "preserved" was better than ash. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. Thorn will drive you." He stood, crossing to the mantel, where a silver box sat beside a porcelain figurine of a nightingale. He traced the box's edge with his finger. "And Ella—don't wander. The West Wing is off-limits for a reason."
Her breath hitched. He knew. He must have noticed her staring at the corridor that morning, its door locked with a heavy iron key. "I wasn't—"
"Save the lies." He turned, his gray-blue eyes hard. "Curiosity gets people hurt here. Remember your place."
That night, Ella waited until the house fell silent. The clock in the hallway chimed midnight, its tone deep and resonant—like the one in her father's workshop. She slipped out of her room, barefoot, the floorboards cool beneath her feet.
The West Wing corridor was darker than she'd remembered, the air thick with the scent of old paper and mothballs. The door at the end was indeed locked, but the keyhole was large—large enough for her to peer through.
She knelt, squinting. Inside, shelves lined the walls, packed with boxes, framed photos, and what looked like a row of antique clocks. In the center, a desk cluttered with papers, and on top of it—another silver nightingale pendant, lying next to a yellowed letter.
Her heart raced. She fumbled in her pocket, pulling out a hairpin she'd swiped from the stylist's kit that morning. It took three shaky attempts, but the lock clicked open.
The room was colder than the rest of the house, as if sunlight rarely touched it. She moved silently to the desk, her fingers brushing the pendant—identical to hers, down to the tiny scratch on the bird's wing. The letter was addressed to "Sebastian, my dearest," in looping cursive.
"The nightingales sing for those who've lost their way… I'll keep mine, you keep yours, and when the war ends, we'll find each other. Tell your mother I'm sorry—for the secret, for the lie, but most of all for loving you when I shouldn't have…."
The words blurred. War? Her grandmother had been a nurse in WWII. Could this be her handwriting?
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Ella spun. Thorn stood in the doorway, his face shadowed. "You shouldn't be here, Ms. White."
"Who is she?" she whispered, holding up the letter. "The girl in the photo. The one who wrote this."
Thorn's jaw tightened. "I've served the Black family for forty years. Some secrets aren't mine to tell."
"Then tell me this—" She lifted her pendant, then pointed to the one on the desk. "Why are these the same? My grandmother had one. Sebastian's… whoever she was, had one. What does it mean?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed, a sound like wind through old trees. "They're part of a pair. Made for twins, back in 1912. The Black heirloom was lost during the war—stolen, some said. Mr. Sebastian spent years searching for it. When he saw yours…." He trailed off, shaking his head. "He thought he'd found what was lost."
Ella's blood ran cold. "He thinks I'm her? The girl in the photo?"
"Not you. Your pendant. But…." Thorn glanced at the door, as if fearing eavesdroppers. "The longer he's near it, the more he sees her in you. The way you tilt your head when you're confused. The way you stubbornly clutch that necklace like it's a lifeline."
It explained everything—the contract, the pendant clause, the way he watched her like she was a ghost made flesh.
A floorboard creaked again, louder this time.
Sebastian stood in the doorway, his face carved from stone. "Get out, Thorn."
The butler left without a word, his shoulders hunched.
Sebastian's gaze fell on the letter in her hand. "You're determined to dig up the past, aren't you?"
"Tell me the truth," Ella said, her voice steady. "Who was she? And why does my grandmother have the same necklace?"
He crossed the room in three strides, snatching the letter from her. His fingers grazed hers, hot and trembling—for once, not in control. "Her name was Clara. She was…." He swallowed, jaw tight. "She was my mother's sister. My aunt. She died in the war. Killed by a bomb, along with her pendant."
Ella froze. "Your aunt? Then my grandmother—"
"Was her nurse. In France, 1944. Clara gave her the pendant before she died, made her promise to keep it safe. To give it to 'someone who needs luck in desperation.'" He quoted her father's words, his voice raw. "Your father knew. He must have. That's why he sent you here."
It hit her like a punch: her father hadn't just mentioned "luck in desperation"—he'd known exactly who held the other pendant. He'd sent her into Sebastian's claws on purpose.
"Why?" she whispered, betrayal stinging. "Why would he do that?"
"Because he owed me a debt. A debt he couldn't pay with money." Sebastian's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "He promised me the pendant. In exchange for covering his first loan, years ago. He lied. Kept it hidden. Sent you instead."
Ella stepped back, collided with the desk. The silver pendant on it clattered to the floor. "So this is what it's about? A necklace? You're keeping me here because of a broken promise over a necklace?"
"Because it's not just a necklace!" He shouted, then stopped, breathing hard. "It's the last thing I have of her. The only proof she existed." He sank into the desk chair, his shoulders slumping. "When I saw you wearing it… I thought I could fix it. Replace what was lost."
For the first time, he looked human—grief-stricken, small, a man haunted by ghosts.
Ella picked up the fallen pendant, pressing it into his palm. "It's not a replacement. Neither am I."
He closed his fingers around it, his gaze dropping to her throat—her pendant, glinting softly.
"Get out," he said again, but his voice was hollow.
She left him there, sitting in the dark, surrounded by his aunt's ghost and the weight of secrets.
Back in her room, Ella stared at her reflection. The pendant felt like a noose now, not a lifeline. Her father had used her. Sebastian saw her as a shadow. And somewhere, tangled in war and promises, was a truth that bound them both.
Tomorrow, she'd go to the workshop. But not to oversee its sale. To find answers—about her grandmother, about Clara, about why her father had sacrificed her freedom for a necklace.
She didn't see Sebastian standing in the hallway, watching her window. He clutched the two pendants in his hand, their cold metal burning into his palm.
He'd wanted to replace the past. But now, staring at her silhouette, he wondered if he was starting to want her—the stubborn, sharp-tongued girl who refused to be a ghost.
A dangerous thought. One that could unravel everything.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the West Wing's empty halls—like the past, finally stirring.