The sun rose with a slow, warm cheeriness peering through the window into Isla's room. Her scent of vanilla filled my nose, her curls scattered over my chest as she snores softly."Gosh, I could get used to this"

Her back was pressed against my chest, ass peeking out making my crotch excited, while my arm locked around her waist; holding her while it lasted.

The world was silent except for the sound of our breathing and her light snores. The frantic energy of the night before; the jealousy, the raw claiming passion has gone away, leaving behind a strange feeling- peace?

This feeling seems different. The other time at the hotel, the library had been about possession, trying to prove a point I couldn't even understand myself. But now, this...this feels like I'm surrendering to my tiny little historian. She has me wrapped around her fingers.

I tried to keep my breath even with hers while she slept, wanting to prolong this fragile warmth. The Thorne in me knew this was a vulnerability I couldn't afford. But, the primal and possessive part of me pulled her closer.

She was mine and seeing her with Lucan had unleashed something in me, a possessiveness so deep it felt like a physical ache. But having her here in my arms felt like the beast had been calmed.

She stirred, attempting to put distance between us. I couldn't allow it. "Stop moving too much Campbell" I murmured into her hair.

She stilled "Cade..."

"In the flesh baby," I answered winking at her.

She blushed immediately, covering her face with her palms.

The sound of my name on her lips did something to my insides. I buried my face behind her ear inhaling her scent.

"Five more minutes baby, the world can wait," I said trying to convince her.

She laced her fingers over mine where they rested on her stomach and something deep in my chest, something I kept locked down for years gave a painful resonant thud. This was a beautiful chaotic mistake.

When I finally let go of her, she turned to face me with wide doe eyes. She looked ravished by me, with hickeys scattered over her neck, her lips swollen from kisses...I could get used to this look. It was breathtaking.

"Good morning," I said with a raspy voice.

"Morning" she shyly whispered back.

I reached out and tucked a curl behind her ears, my knuckles brushed her soft cheek and I saw her breath catch, the trust in her eyes...I could get lost in them. I need to regain myself.

"I'm making breakfast" I announced, swinging myself out of her bed. I needed to be occupied to stop myself from unraveling her all over again.

She appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, wearing a loose worn-out T-shirt, watching me with an interested look.

"Who knew Cade Thorne was domestic?" she asked.

I glanced back at her smirking. "Contrary to popular beliefs, I wasn't born behind a CEO's desk, as an only child, I simply evolved and learnt how to cook because I'm a picky eater." I said, winking at her." 

That was simply the truth, I didn't tell her about the years before the Thorne name meant anything. Those were scars I didn't want to share.

We ate in silence, both lost in our thoughts ignoring the outside world. But we both had an issue that we needed to address.

I set my fork down as I spoke, "The photo"

She flinched in embarrassment as she dropped her gaze to her plate, sending a wave of anger through me. Not at her, but at the intruder, and for myself for putting her in this mess.

"I saw," she said, her voice low.

My PR team is handling it" I laid out the plan, my voice cool, the professional, efficient CEO in me taking over.

It was the only way out. "Firstly, we emphasize your qualifications, then we frame the photo as a breach of privacy. I have Eleanor and the PR team on it, rest assured the media would forget about it in no time."

But I felt like a liar, because that kiss was from pure, unadulterated need

Then she asked the one question that made my heart flip, "And what about... us?"

"Us"?? The word hung in the air, fragile and dangerous. There could be no 'us.' 'Us' was a liability.'Us' was a distraction I couldn't afford. There could be no "us" in the word "Thorne"

"There is no 'us,' Isla," I said, my voice harder than I intended, while her face dropped. I had to make her understand. I had to build the wall back up. "Not in the way the world needs to define it. There is this." I gestured between us, a blunt acknowledgment of the undeniable chemistry. "That doesn't change your job. We will be professional at the estate. What happens outside of it... remains outside of it." I answered.

I saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she masked it, and it felt like a physical blow. She nodded, accepting my terms. "Okay."

But I couldn't leave it there. The other, greater threat still loomed. LUCAN. The mere thought of him speaking to her, of his lies sinking into her mind, made my blood run cold and boil at the same time.

"There's something else I need to discuss with you; it's Lucan."

Her defiance returned, a spark in her beautiful brown eyes. "You keep saying that, you keep telling me to stay away from him, but you never say why. He's been nothing but polite to me."

And then she delivered the blow I should have seen coming. "He even offered me a job, he wants me to stop working for you and start working for him."

"Of course he did, that cunning bastard," I said in a low growl. My body was full of rage and cold sweat dripping down my neck.

He'd seen the photo, seen the vulnerability, and he'd moved in for the kill.

Every word was a calculated move in Lucan's game, and she was the prize he wanted to steal from me.

"He's a lunatic Isla," I told her, the truth tearing out of me. "He doesn't want you for your mind; he wants you because you're someone he can use against me."

"Why?" she pressed, leaning forward, demanding answers I had never given anyone. "Why does he hate his brother so much?"

"Stepbrother," I corrected automatically, the old, familiar bitterness rising in my throat. "And the reasons are old and ugly." 

How could I explain a lifetime of resentment? How could I tell her about the twisted, bitter man who saw my father's love as a theft? 

"He believes he was cheated. He's spent years trying to undermine me." I paused. I had to make her understand the danger of associating with Lucan without dragging her into the full, horrific truth. "He has a... history, a dark one. There are things he's done, lines he's crossed, that you can never even imagine."

Her whisper was a ghost of sound. "What things?"

I shook my head in refusal. I would not stain her with the details of Lucan's corruption. The blackmail, the ruined lives, the cold-hearted manipulations... She lived in a world of old books and historical truths. She wasn't ready for the living, breathing evil my stepbrother was capable of.

"You don't need those details, Isla. Just trust me ok?. He is dangerous and his proposal is a trap."

I stood, abruptly ending the conversation. I had to get out, to put space between us because I said too much, and before I pleaded with her to trust a man who had given her every reason not to. I gathered my things, the fabric of my shirt from her floor a stark reminder of the line we kept crossing and the walls I kept failing to maintain. A sheer reminder of our passionate night.

At the door, I stopped, my hand on the knob. I didn't look back. I couldn't. If I saw her face, I might shatter completely.

"The car will pick you up in an hour. Don't be late."

I walked out, closing the door on the scent of vanilla and the ghost of a peace I didn't deserve. The storm had passed, but I was heading straight back into the heart of the war, and I had just left my greatest vulnerability behind me.

The Thorne library was where I sought some peace and quiet. It was my safe space and I was trapped inside with the memories of Cade's touch and the  PR statement released that morning. It was a cold, expressive article that made our raw, hot, hotel-room passion sound like an insignificant social slip-up and we were responsible for our lives and the choices we make.

My professional reputation was being polished and my achievements were listed and emphasized.  While I still felt uneasy as I read the article, all I could see was the scorn on Eleanor's face when she announced the situation had been addressed.

Eleanor always looked far from polite and her cold demeanor says it all. She looks like she underwent a few cosmetic surgeries and it just doesn't add up. Her flawless face and porcelain skin don't match the scar and aged skin on her hand. But I am here as a historian, not some private investigator.

 I started from the new archival boxes Eleanor had delivered with passion. The sharp scent of old paper and dust was a welcome anesthetic.

"These are the final boxes from the family's private medical archives," Eleanor had announced, her voice sharp.

But there was something about her gaze today, it wasn't just the usual passive-aggressive judgment; it was sharper and more assessing, as if she were examining a piece on a chessboard. A cold shiver ran down my spine as she left. Her sharp, floral perfume filled the library like a warning.

I lost myself in sorting birth certificates, vaccination records, and routine physicals for a young Cade and Lucan. Seeing Cade's name on a form for a childhood physical, dated over two decades ago, sent a strange, tender ache through me. I was handling the records of the boy who had become the man who could unravel me with a single, heated look and touch.

The next box was older. The labels and tags dated it to the year of Cade's birth which turns out to be also my birth year. 

"Whew! What a coincidence"  I thought.

I worked through files about Cade's mother's prenatal vitamins, sonogram reports, and delivery schedules. It was all carefully recorded but wasn't properly filed.

And then I found it. A file that didn't belong. It was tucked between her obstetrical records and a box of information on a private nursing service. 

It was a clinical photo of a newborn, the kind taken for hospital records. The baby was tiny, its face scrunched from crying. A standard white hospital bracelet was a blur around its little wrist.

My eyes, which have been trained to dissect even the smallest details, scanned the image carefully. And then on the hip of the delicate, newborn skin, was a small, distinct birthmark. A pale, coffee-colored patch in the perfect shape of a crescent moon.

My own hand flew to my left hip, pressing hard through the fabric of my skirt. I knew that shape. I'd traced its familiar curve my whole life. My "little moon kiss" as  I always called it. My heart thudded in my chest, sweat forming under my breast and running down my stomach suddenly.

"No...It's a coincidence, must be a coincidence" I muttered.

I grabbed the photograph, squinting my eyes as I lifted it. My heart is frantically beating in a panic rhythm against my rib cage. I brought it closer, blinking at the blurred hospital bracelet. I could just make out the blurred letters. It was not my name. But the name on the file: T-H-O-R-N-E.

The air rushed from my lungs. The sudden confirmation felt like a physical blow. This wasn't just a picture of any baby. This was a picture of me, as a newborn in a file in my place of work.

Why? How?

The questions screamed in my head, what was my baby picture doing in the Thorne estate?. I was the child of James and Lena Campbell. And they were teachers before they passed in a car accident eight years ago, a tragedy Sabrina had saved me from. That was my story. It was the bedrock of my existence.

But this photograph, hidden in a file about me, threatened my very existence. Was I... Was I not who I thought I was?

A sudden, chill feeling filled the library. My parents' accident. The horrific, random tragedy that made me an orphan. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Sab had always said it felt... intentional. The way the truck had swerved. The police had called it a tragedy and the case was closed. But now, the word "murder" whispered in the darkest corner of my mind.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I shoved the photograph back into the folder, my movements quick and uncoordinated. I buried it at the bottom of the box, piling other files on top like a shallow grave for a truth I wasn't ready to face. I couldn't breathe. The majestic, mahogany shelves seemed to be closing in, the painted ceiling now peering down at me.

I stumbled to the grand window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The perfect gardens, the serene lake, the gate; it all looked different now. It wasn't just a workplace. It felt like a birthright. Or a crime scene.

And I was no longer just the historian. I was a piece of the evidence...I wouldn't rest until I fixed the puzzle.

I stood frozen at the window. The world outside was harmonized, but inside me, I was a confused mess. My birthmark. The baby...Was it me or someone else?

It had to be a mistake. An insane coincidence. There was a logical explanation... There had to be. Because the alternative that my life was a lie, that my parents' death was not an accident, that I was somehow linked to this was too terrifying to entertain.

The library door opened which caused me to flinch, I spun around expecting to see Eleanor with her cold, sharp stare, holding another shocking piece of my possible past.

But instead, it saw Cade.

Immediately I saw him, I heaved a sigh of relief wanting to run into his large arms while he comforted me, but I wasn't ready to let him know, until I was very sure.

He stood at the doorway with a smirk on his face. He is wearing a perfectly ironed white shirt with the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up revealing his large veiny arms. He looked like a Greek God with his perfectly sleeked hair and muscles bursting through his shirt. Every memory of being held in those arms would always be carved in my heart.

His ice-blue eyes found me instantly, and they somewhat brightened up.

"Hiding from your adoring public, Campbell?" he asked, his voice was a low, velvety rumble that did nothing to calm the frantic beating of my heart. The tease was there, but his gaze was burning through me.

I forced my lungs to work. "Just... the dust," I managed, gesturing weakly toward the boxes. "Allergies."

A lie, transparent and pathetic.

He took a few steps into the library, eyes locked on mine. His familiar scent suddenly brought back memories of how I was almost fucked in this particular library on my first day.

"I need you," he said, sending jolts of electricity through me.

 "A painting just arrived at the west gallery...its origin and authenticity seem questionable. I need your professional eyes." He said in his deep, hoarse voice.

Work, command, lifeline... that's something my trained, logical mind could understand, unlike the emotional predicament I was sinking into.

"Of course," I said, my voice steadier. "My tools are..."

"Already there." He replied.

He led the way, and I followed. trying to catch up with his fast strides. Several paintings of the Thornes filled the hallway, their eyes seemed to follow me as I walked by, whispering secrets I was only just beginning to guess.

The painting was a small, dark portrait of a woman with haunted eyes, her expression was covered in grief. It felt like a mirror to my own soul. I slipped on my magnifying headset, the familiar weight felt comfortable. I lost myself in the minute details of the brushstrokes, the fine cracks, the subtle layers of varnish, and for a few precious minutes, there was only the puzzle of the painting, saving me from the drowning thoughts of my life.

Cade didn't leave while I worked. Instead, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He was silent and let me work. I could feel his gaze on me, a physical heat that traced the line of my neck, the concentration on my brow. Every shared silence was now filled with the memory of our intimacy.

"Well?" he finally asked, his voice echoing softly. "Master or fake?"

I straightened up, flipping the lenses away. I clung to the solid ground of my expertise. "The brushwork is masterful, and the aging is perfect," I began.

"But in the underpainting... there's a use of a synthetic ultramarine, that's a dead giveaway for a late 19th-century restoration, at the earliest. It's not by the master's hand, but it's a magnificent piece of work in its own right."

I turned to face him. "It's a very intelligent fake."

A slow, genuine smile transformed his face. It wasn't the usual smirk or the cool mask of the CEO. It was a look of pure admiration and respect that stole the air from my lungs more effectively than any kiss.

"Perfect," he said, his voice low. "I knew I could trust your eyes." He smirked.

He closed the distance between us as he looked from the painting then back to me, his gaze so intense that it felt like a caress.

"There's dinner tonight," he stated, his tone casual, though his eyes were not.

"A family affair. My aunt Cordelia is in town. She's a dragon who sits on the Foundation board and enjoys breathing fire on newcomers." He jested.

A family dinner...The Thorne family. A fresh wave of panic shot through me. To sit among them, to make polite conversation, while the baby picture with my birthmark screamed in my mind...

"Cade, I don't think that's a good idea," I protested, using his name without thinking.

"It's the best idea I've had all day," he countered, his voice dropping. 

"You are the brilliant mind saving this family's legacy. They need to see that. I need them to see that." He reached out, and this time, his fingers did brush against the stray curl near my temple, a whisper of a touch that sent sparks across my skin. "And I want you with me."

The request was raw and undeniable, shattering my remaining defenses. This wasn't about business. This felt more like a date, but I refuse to put my hopes into it.

Before I could form a coherent thought, a voice, sharp and crisp cut through the gallery.

"The board is waiting, sir and their patience is thinner than the veneer on that dreadful Hepplewhite sideboard," Eleanor announced.

She stood there with a ledger in her hand, her expression filled with scorn. Her eyes flicked to me, and for a fleeting second, I saw something cold and calculating that had nothing to do with office politics.

"I'll be there shortly, Eleanor," Cade said, his voice regaining its edge.

"Of course," she said, her smile tight.

 "Do try to find something appropriate to wear for dinner, Miss Campbell. Aunt Cordelia has very... specific tastes. She once accused a duchess of committing a fashion felony with an ill-chosen brooch." 

She said with a dry, deadly tone, then turned and left.

 A hidden photo somewhere in this estate threatened my entire identity, coupled with a billionaire who looked at me like I held the stars, and now, a dinner with a woman who sounded worse than Eleanor.

Cade saw my struggle, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a rare, genuine show of humor. "She's not entirely exaggerating about Cordelia," he admitted. "Wear the black dress...The one from the club." His eyes darkened with memory. "The one that makes you look like you can conquer anything." He added, then winked at me.

He remembered every second.

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at me, "Seven o'clock Isla...Don't be late."

Suddenly, he was gone, leaving me alone with the forged masterpiece and the terrifying, genuine masterpiece of my own unraveling life. 

 He was pulling me deeper into the heart of his family, even as I was beginning to suspect that I might be its long-lost daughter or some coincidence.