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.