The screen of the burner phone flickered, loading a single image file.
It was a digital scan of an old Polaroid.
The white border of the original photo was visible in the scan, with a date scrawled in black permanent marker: Paris, 2003.
The subject was a woman standing on a rain-slicked cobblestone street. Damien recognized her instantly from the dossier Ken had compiled on the Vale family. It was Eleanor Vale—Aria’s mother. The resemblance was striking. She had the same delicate bone structure, the same soft curve to her jaw, though her hair was darker than Aria’s rose-gold.
But she didn’t look like the tragic, repressed socialite described in the police reports. She looked radiant.
She was laughing, sheltering under a black umbrella held by a man.
Damien zoomed in on the man.
He wasn’t Raymond Vale. He was taller, broader, with sharp features that made Raymond look like a soft accountant by comparison. He wore a heavy wool coat with the collar turned up, and he was handing Eleanor a bouquet of white camellias.
Behind them, a flower shop sign blurred by the rain read: Le Jardin Secret, Rue Saint-Honoré.
Damien frowned. ’Paris. 2003.’
Aria was twenty years old. Born in late 2004. Which meant this photo was taken roughly a year before she was born.
If Eleanor was in Paris with this man in 2003, looking this happy, then who was he? A lover? A bodyguard?
He zoomed in on the man’s hand holding the umbrella. On his pinky finger sat a heavy, silver signet ring. The resolution was too grainy to make out the crest.
’Why is a file named ’Orpheus’ holding a picture of Aria’s mother on a date in Paris? How suspiciously intentional,’ Damien thought as he locked the screen. ’It’s almost as if they anticipated us getting the phone.’
He looked at Aria, curled up on the sofa under the cashmere throw. She slept peacefully, her hand tucked under her cheek. She had no idea this photo existed.
If he showed her this now, she would ask questions he couldn’t answer. She would want to find the man in the photo. And if the text message threat was real—if you open the file, you bring down the roof—then finding this man might be the trigger for something lethal.
He slipped the phone into his pocket.
’I need to know who he is first,’ Damien decided. ’Until then, she cannot know.’
He stood up, his headache finally receding into a dull throb. He needed Ken to run facial recognition on the mystery man. But not tonight.
Tonight, he just needed to sleep next to his wife.
Aria woke up in the Master Bed. She stretched, feeling a delightful ache in her muscles. She rolled over, expecting emptiness, but found Damien sitting on the edge of the mattress, buttoning his shirt.
He looked annoyed. Not the "I’m a dark brooding CEO" annoyance, but the specific "I have to deal with idiots before coffee" annoyance.
"You’re still here," Aria mumbled.
"I have a meeting," he said. "Get dressed. We have a visitor."
Aria sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. "Visitor? Who?"
Aria scrambled out of bed, grabbing a silk robe. She followed Damien into the living room just as the heavy steel doors of the elevator slid open.
An elderly man stepped out. He was wearing a suit that was tailored but about thirty years out of style. He held a silver tray with a black envelope on it.
He looked like a dehydrated turtle in a tuxedo.
"Alfred," Damien said, his voice flat. "I pay three separate security firms to keep you out of my building."
"And the Family Trust pays the building’s mortgage, Mr. Sinclair," Alfred replied, his voice dry and unimpressed. "We have the admin codes. Stop changing them; it’s tedious."
Alfred walked into the room without waiting for an invitation. He stopped in front of the coffee table and looked at Aria. His gaze swept over her messy hair and silk robe with the clinical distaste of a health inspector finding a rat in the kitchen.
"So," Alfred sniffed. "This is the wife you’ve chosen."
"Aria," Aria corrected, crossing her arms. "And you are?"
"Alfred. I manage the Estate," he dismissed her, turning back to Damien. He held out the tray.
"The Annual Harvest Weekend. Friday. 5:00 PM. Attendance is mandatory."
"I’m busy," Damien said, walking to the kitchen island to pour coffee. "Send my regrets to the crypt."
"Your grandfather anticipated your... temper tantrum," Alfred said smoothly. "He asked me to remind you that the ground lease for Sinclair Tower expires next month. The renewal requires a quorum vote from the Trust. If you aren’t at dinner, the vote defaults to ’No’."
Damien froze. The coffee pot hovered in mid-air.
He turned around slowly. The air in the room got very, very thin.
"He’s threatening to evict his own company?"
"He’s ensuring family unity," Alfred corrected, placing the black envelope on the table. "You built the tower, Damien. But he owns the dirt under it. Don’t be late."
He paused, looking at Aria again.
"And have her dress properly. Your grandfather finds modern fashion...cheap and gaudy."
Alfred gave a stiff bow and retreated to the elevator. The doors closed.
Silence.
Aria walked over to the envelope. It was sealed with black wax.
"He’s bluffing," Aria said. "Evicting Sinclair Corp would tank the stock. He’d lose millions."
"He doesn’t care about millions," Damien said, taking a dark sip of coffee. "He has billions. He cares about control. He hates that I succeeded without him."
He walked to the window, staring out at the skyline.
"We’re not going. I’ll sue him. I’ll drag the lease renewal through court for ten years."
"No," Aria said.
Damien turned.
Aria picked up the envelope. She tapped it against her palm, a small, dangerous smile playing on her lips.
"If we don’t go, he thinks he won," she started. "He thinks he can tell me what to wear?"
She laughed and walked up to Damien, placing a hand on his chest.
"You’re not a boy anymore, Damien. You’re the King. And you didn’t marry a wallflower."
Damien looked down at her. The tension in his shoulders broke, replaced by a flicker of amusement.
"You want to go?"
"Of course," Aria responded. "He wants a traditional, submissive granddaughter-in-law? I’m going to give him a heart attack instead."