I caught my husband kissing my older sister in my mother’s kitchen while twenty people celebrated my father’s sixty-fifth birthday in the next room. / Chapter 77 / 120

Chapter 77 - The Whispering Gallery

The rain had softened into a thick, suffocating coastal fog by the time we reached the perimeter of the Blackthorn Conservatory. The estate loomed out of the mist like a Victorian leviathan—a sprawling palace of blackened wrought iron and towering glass panes, perched on a wooded ridge overlooking the dark waters of the bay.

We left the truck two miles out, moving through the dense undergrowth on foot. Liam led the way, his night-vision optics scanning the treeline for thermal signatures.

"Two sentries at the perimeter gate," Liam murmured into his throat mic. "Another two patrolling the southern terrace. They aren't local muscle. Movement patterns, spacing, gear—they're private military contractors."

"The Circle's enforcement wing," I whispered back.

We reached the drainage culvert hidden beneath an overgrown tangle of wild brambles. The rusted grate had been pried open recently; fresh scratches scored the stone casing. Arthur's trail was fresh.

We slipped into the subterranean tunnel, moving in total silence through the damp, narrow brick passage. The air grew warmer, humid with the scent of damp earth, tropical ferns, and decaying orchids. We were directly beneath the conservatory's massive greenhouse floor.

Liam signaled for a halt. Above us, the faint murmur of voices drifted down through an ornate iron air grate.

I peered up through the geometric scrollwork of the grille.

The central pavilion of the conservatory was illuminated by the soft, eerie glow of emergency lanterns. Towering palm trees and creeping vines hung over the marble statues. In the center of the mosaic floor stood my sister, Eleanor.

She looked entirely unraveled. Her designer trench coat was splattered with mud, her blonde hair tangled, her face smeared with mascara and tears. Tied to a stone pillar across from her was Julian—beaten bloody, his designer shirt shredded, his head hanging limp against his chest.

Standing between them was a man in an immaculate dark overcoat, his back turned to us.

"You called her, didn't you, Eleanor?" the man asked. His voice was smooth, cultured, and carried an agonizing familiarity that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"Yes!" Eleanor wept, clutching her hands against her chest. "I did exactly what you asked! I told her to come alone! Just let Julian go! Please, you promised!"

The man let out a soft, pitying sigh and turned around slowly.

My breath caught in my throat. My entire body locked up in absolute shock.

The face was older, lined with the harsh toll of hidden years, but the piercing gray eyes, the sharp aristocratic nose, and the arrogant curve of his jaw were unmistakably the man who had raised me.

Arthur Thorne.

He was alive.

"My poor, foolish girl," Arthur said softly, walking over to Eleanor and gently resting a hand on her trembling shoulder. "You really haven't learned a single thing about our family, have you?"

"Dad..." Eleanor sobbed, reaching out to hug him.

Arthur didn't embrace her. His hand moved down to the lapel of his coat, drawing a sound-suppressed pistol with terrifying, casual indifference.