Dawn seeped through the workshop windows like old ink, pooling on the workbench where Ella's father had spent forty years mending time. The air smelled of wood polish and metal filings, familiar and aching—this place had been her second home, where she'd learned to count gears before she could count stars.
Thorn had dropped her off an hour earlier, his instructions crisp: "Lord Harrington arrives at ten. Don't be late." He'd lingered in the car, though, his gaze fixed on the workshop door as if he expected her to bolt.
Ella ran her fingers over the scarred workbench. A half-finished pocket watch lay there, its casing etched with a tiny nightingale—her father's signature. She'd helped him file the metal last month, before the bills piled up like storm clouds.
She needed answers. Why had he sent her to Sebastian? Why hide the pendant's story? And what did Clara's letter—"loving you when I shouldn't have"—mean?
The workshop's back room was a cluttered archive: boxes of receipts, faded photographs, and a locked metal cabinet her father called "the memory safe." He'd never let her open it.
Ella found the key under a loose floorboard—where he'd hidden it since she was a child, for "emergencies only." The lock clicked, and she pulled open the drawer.
Inside, a stack of letters tied with twine. The top envelope was addressed to her, postmarked three days ago.
"My dearest Ella," she read, her father's handwriting shaky. "If you're reading this, I'm either in surgery or worse. I'm sorry. For the lies, for the debt, for trading your freedom like a pawn. But Sebastian Black isn't just a creditor—he's the only one who can protect you."
Her breath caught. Protect her from what?
"Clara's pendant isn't just luck. It's a key. To the Black family vault. To secrets they buried with Clara. Secrets that could destroy them. And if they find out you have it…." The ink blurred, as if he'd cried on the page. "Sebastian thinks he's controlling you. But you're the one holding the lock. Find the ledger in the cabinet. It lists every debt, every secret. Use it. Run, if you have to. Just don't let them take the pendant."
A ledger. Ella dug deeper, pulling out a leather-bound book with "1944–Present" embossed on the cover. She flipped to the first page: a list of names, dates, and numbers. "Black, Eleanor—£5000, 1945. For 'silencing the nurse.'" Her grandmother's name.
Her blood ran cold. Eleanor White. Her grandmother.
"Black, Victor—£20,000, 1978. For 'disposing of the ledger.'" Victor Black—Sebastian's father.
"White, Thomas—£150,000, 2023. For 'the pendant's return.'" Her father.
Ella's hands shook. The debts weren't random. They were hush money. Her grandmother had known something—something the Blacks paid to bury. And her father had traded the pendant to Sebastian… but kept it, sending her instead.
Why?
A floorboard creaked.
Ella slammed the ledger shut, slipping it into her coat. Lord Harrington stood in the doorway, his tweed suit dusted with sawdust, a smirk on his face.
"Lost in thought, Ms. White?" He stepped closer, his cologne clashing with the workshop's scent. "Pity about your father's mess. But don't worry—I'll keep the place 'authentic.' Maybe add a café. Tourists love nostalgia."
Ella's jaw tightened. "It's not a museum. It's a workshop."
"Was a workshop," he corrected, plucking the half-finished pocket watch from the bench. "This is charming. Worth a pretty penny as a 'vintage artifact.'"
"Put it down." Her voice sharpened. That watch was her father's last work.
Lord Harrington laughed, tucking it into his pocket. "Feisty. No wonder Black keeps you around. Though I hear he's got a thing for your necklace—sentimental fool. Bet he'd pay double to get his hands on it."
Her fingers flew to the pendant. "It's not for sale."
"Everything's for sale, love." He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. "Even you. How much did he offer? I'll top it."
Ella stepped back, reaching for the workbench—for a screwdriver, anything. But before she could grab it, the door flew open.
Sebastian stood there, his face like a storm. "Harrington."
Lord Harrington straightened, the smirk fading. "Black. Perfect timing. Your… companion and I were just discussing the workshop's future."
Sebastian's gaze fell on Ella's white knuckles, then on Harrington's pocket—where the watch bulge showed. "Empty your pocket."
Lord Harrington froze. "It's a trinket—"
"Now." Sebastian's voice was low, dangerous.
Harrington pulled out the watch, dropping it on the bench. "Touchy. She's not your property, you know."
"Actually," Sebastian said, his arm sliding around Ella's waist—firm, possessive, a warning—"she is. For six months. Read the contract." He turned to her, his thumb brushing her jaw. "Ready to go?"
Ella nodded, her throat tight. She grabbed the ledger, tucking it against her side.
Outside, the car waited. Sebastian opened the door for her, but before she climbed in, he said, "What did you find?"
Her eyes widened. "How—"
"Thorn saw you with the cabinet. He knows better than to lie to me." He leaned against the car, sunlight catching the silver in his hair. "What's in it, Ella?"
She hesitated. The ledger burned in her coat. If she told him, would he take it? Hide the truth again?
"Nothing," she said, sliding into the car. "Just old receipts."
He stared at her for a long moment, then shut the door.
The drive back to the estate was silent. Sebastian sat beside her, his gaze fixed on the window, but she felt it—heavy, probing, like he was trying to read the ledger through her coat.
When they arrived, he said, "Stay in your room. I'll send for you tonight."
"For what?"
"Dinner. With guests." His tone left no room for argument.
Alone in her room, Ella locked the door and spread the ledger on the bed. She flipped to 1945, to her grandmother's entry: "Eleanor White—£5000. For 'silencing the nurse.'" Below it, a note in her father's handwriting: "Clara's child. They never found it."
Clara's child?
Ella's mind raced. Clara was Sebastian's aunt, died in the war. If she'd had a child… that child would be Sebastian's cousin. A Black heir, hidden away.
And her grandmother had known. Had been paid to keep quiet.
A knock at the door. "Ms. White? Stylists for dinner."
Ella hid the ledger under her mattress, smoothing the sheets.
Two hours later, she stood in the dining room, wearing a dress of deep red silk that clung to her curves—Sebastian's choice, no doubt. The pendant glinted against the fabric, a target.
The guests were the same as breakfast: Lord Harrington (now avoiding her gaze), the woman in emerald (Chloe Voss, she'd learned), and a few others with sharp smiles and sharper eyes.
Sebastian took her arm, guiding her to the table. "Chloe was just asking about your necklace," he said, his voice light. "Tell her where you got it."
Ella's spine stiffened. "A gift from my grandmother."
"Antique, isn't it?" Chloe said, sipping champagne. "I've seen one like it. In a Black family portrait. 1943. Of Clara Black. Sebastian's aunt." She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Funny, isn't it? How history repeats itself."
Sebastian's grip on Ella's arm tightened. "Enough, Chloe."
"Why? Afraid she'll figure it out?" Chloe laughed, loud enough to silence the table. "Figure out you're keeping her around because she looks like her? Because she wears Clara's pendant like a trophy?"
Ella's breath caught. She looks like her. Had Thorn been right? Did she resemble Clara?
Sebastian's face was stone. "Leave. Now."
Chloe stood, gathering her coat. "Enjoy your ghost, Sebastian. But remember—ghosts always haunt the living."
The door slammed. The room fell silent.
Sebastian released Ella's arm, his knuckles white. "Finish your dinner."
But Ella couldn't eat. She pushed back her chair. "Why did she say I look like Clara?"
He didn't answer.
"Tell me." She stepped closer, her voice rising. "Is that why you wanted me? Because I look like her? Because of some stupid resemblance and a necklace?"
He stood, his height towering over her. "You want the truth?" His voice was raw, unguarded. "Yes. At first. I saw her in your eyes, in the way you frown when you're mad. But then…." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Then I saw you."
The words hung in the air, heavy and hot.
Ella's heart raced. Then I saw you.
A floorboard creaked. Thorn stood in the doorway, his face grim. "Mr. Black. The hospital called. About Mr. White."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. "What happened?"
"Complications. He's in critical condition."
Ella's world tilted. "No—"
Sebastian grabbed her hand, his touch warm, urgent. "We're going."
She followed him to the car, her mind blank. Her father. The ledger. Clara's child. None of it mattered if he was gone.
In the backseat, Sebastian's thumb brushed the back of her hand. A silent apology. A truce.
Ella stared out the window, the pendant pressing into her chest. Whatever secrets lay in the ledger, whatever ghosts haunted Sebastian—they'd have to wait.
For now, there was only her father. And the fragile, dangerous thing blooming between her and the man who'd locked her in a gilded cage.
A thing that might save them. Or burn them both.