Ishan didn't go to breakfast the next morning.
He rarely did. The staff knew by now not to expect him at the table, and his father never ate with anyone unless it served a purpose. Meals in the Vale Estate were not about nourishment. They were negotiations dressed in linen and bone china.
But today, he stayed away for a different reason.
The photo in his hand was still warm from the lamp light. He'd studied it all night. Amina Royce. Standing at the grave of her uncle, Lemuel Royce. The date on the headstone matched what he already knew—March 18, 2008. But the inscription… that was new.
A brother betrayed. A fire denied.
He didn't know if Amina had written it herself or if it had been carved later. But it didn't sound like something written for peace. It sounded like a warning.
His eyes moved to the handwriting on the back again.
Ask her what happened that night. If she dares to remember.
Not *if you dare*. If *she* does.
That changed everything.
Ishan placed the photo in a slim black folder and locked it in the second drawer of his desk. He had memorized the details anyway. Names, dates, phrases—his mind stored them like code. Not for curiosity. For survival.
He reached for his tablet. The household staff roster was updated daily at 6:00 a.m. sharp. No one on the list matched the woman who delivered the envelope. That meant either she was someone his father hired off the books—which was unlikely—or she had slipped past the estate's security entirely.
In this house, that was almost impossible.
But almost wasn't the same as never.
Ishan scrolled through the network logs. Vale Estate ran on a private signal grid, monitored by over 300 invisible checkpoints. Movement was mapped by smart pathways. Access doors were logged and time-stamped. The system knew everything.
Or it should have.
But the moment he tried to pull the footage from the front gate, the feed jumped.
A two-minute gap. Right at the exact time the delivery occurred.
His fingers stilled on the screen. This wasn't a malfunction. It was a scrub.
Someone had cleaned the footage.
He leaned back in his chair, shoulders tense. This wasn't just a message. It was a challenge. Someone was playing with him, and worse—they had access.
Downstairs, he heard the low whine of tires on gravel.
He rose, went to the window.
A single black car was pulling through the gates.
A slim woman stepped out from the backseat.
Amina Royce.
Seventeen days early.
He didn't move for a long time.
His father hadn't mentioned this. No message. No update. Which could only mean one thing: this wasn't Ellis's arrangement. This was hers.
Or someone else's.
Ishan pulled on a black sweater, silent shoes, and left through the west stairwell. Most of the estate was off-limits to guests unless supervised, but the south balcony offered a direct view into the receiving hall—without being seen. It was a trick he'd learned at sixteen, watching corporate spies try to charm their way into the family's trust.
Amina stood just inside the doorway, the housekeeper wringing her hands beside her. Rain dotted the shoulders of Amina's coat, and her dark hair was swept back in a loose bun. She looked older than her photos. Not by age, but by weight—something behind the eyes that said she'd lived through more than she wanted to say.
She wasn't looking around like a curious guest. She wasn't scanning for power plays or signs of wealth. She looked like someone calculating exits.
"I wasn't expected," she said to the housekeeper.
"No, ma'am, but we can prepare a guest room. Mr. Vale isn't home, but I can—"
"I'm not here for Ellis."
The housekeeper blinked. "You mean Master Ishan?"
Amina's smile was faint. Tight.
"If he's willing to see me."
She was smart. She knew her presence this early would raise alarms. But she also knew how to appear composed. It was a delicate balance—making a statement without stepping over a line. Ishan respected that.
He stepped away from the balcony.
By the time Amina was shown to the east sitting room, he was already there, seated in his usual chair by the unlit fireplace. She entered without hesitation. The housekeeper opened her mouth to speak, then saw him already waiting and excused herself in silence.
For a moment, they looked at each other.
Then, with careful grace, Amina sat across from him.
Her hands rested lightly in her lap. Her coat was still damp. She didn't speak immediately, and neither did he.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"I know this is irregular. I know I should've waited. But I needed to meet you... without a script."
Ishan gave a small nod.
She watched him for a beat, then smiled with a hint of nervousness.
"You don't speak, do you?"
Another nod.
"Then I'll do the talking."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. No envelope. Just a single sheet.
"I got this three nights ago," she said. "It was under my door in the boarding house I've been staying at. I haven't been home in months. Too many eyes."
She handed it to him.
He unfolded it.
It was a photo. The same grave.
Lemuel Royce.
Same inscription.
Same handwriting on the back.
Ask him what he knows. If he dares to admit it.
He looked up sharply.
Amina's face was unreadable. But her hands were clenched now.
"They sent it to both of us," she said softly.
He nodded.
"You think it's your father?"
He didn't answer. But something in his eyes told her he didn't know. Or didn't want to know.
Amina exhaled slowly.
"I don't want this marriage to be a cage. Not for me, and not for you. But if we're being dragged into something, we should be clear on one thing."
He tilted his head.
"We're not enemies," she said. "At least... I don't want to be."
He studied her.
She was hiding something. But not from malice. From fear. And fear was something Ishan understood intimately.
He reached for the tablet on the table beside him. Typed something quickly. Then turned the screen to her.
"Tell me what happened the night your uncle died."
Her breath caught.
"I thought you'd ask that."
She looked down.
"I was eight. We were supposed to be at my father's fundraiser, but Lemuel pulled me out of the car halfway there. Said something about a fire. Said we had to go back to the house. My mother was screaming. I didn't understand."
She paused, visibly trembling now.
"That night... I saw someone set the fire. I saw them pour the fuel. I saw their face."
Ishan's fingers paused on the screen.
Amina swallowed hard.
"And I've been running from that face ever since."
She looked at him.
And then said the words that chilled the room.
"It was your mother."
Ishan didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
But inside, the world shifted.
Because in all his years of silence, there was one memory he had never spoken aloud. A single frame, burned into his mind.
A woman with shaking hands. A spark in the dark. A fire that no one ever investigated.
And a boy, watching from behind a glass door, too small to understand, too afraid to scream.
Amina's voice was a whisper now.
"Someone wants us together, Ishan. Not for peace. For truth. Or maybe punishment."
He slowly closed the tablet.
Then stood.
And for the first time in years, he reached out his hand to someone.
She hesitated.
Then took it.
They didn't smile.
They didn't speak.
But they understood.
Seventeen days until the wedding.
And the past had already arrived.