Page 55 of Forbidden Access

“Yeah, this morning. I told him what had happened, and he was understandably concerned. He’s going to look into the possibility of a leak at the office, although I can’t think who it could be.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Alek to try to buy off one of your operatives,” he grumbled.

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Pat vets them pretty thoroughly before he hires them. I doubt any of them can be bought.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has a price.”

Her eyes slanted. “Not everyone.”

He didn’t respond. An uneasy silence stretched between them, until Damian said, “I thought I’d clean up the Yamaha today.”

“Are you sure?” If he wanted to wash a filthy motorcycle, that was up to him. “We’re just going to ditch it anyway.”

“The owners will want it back, and I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Another jab, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“Okay, fine. I’ll be inside if you need me. I’ve got a lot of sorting to do.”

“I won’t. We’re good here.”

She gave a weary nod. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Thorn watched Damian leave the room, his broad shoulders tense, the unspoken words between them hanging like a heavy fog. She let out a slow breath, her eyes trailing to the door as it clicked shut behind him.

A part of her wanted to call him back, to explain herself, to make him understand that last night had nothing to do with him.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

The old farmhouse was eerily quiet once Damian was gone. Thorn stood in the center of the living room, feeling the weight of the past pressing in on her from all sides. It wasn’t just the house, it was everything that came with it. Every corner, every piece of furniture, every photograph on the wall was a reminder of a life she no longer lived, with a man who no longer existed.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, lost in thought, before her gaze finally settled on the doorway to the study. The door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness spilling into the hall. It was the only room she hadn’t been able to bring herself to enter since they’d arrived. The study had been Jaden’s space, where he’d drafted designs, drawn sketches and sometimes painted. Now, it was just a room full of ghosts.

Thorn crossed the living room, her steps slow and deliberate as she approached the study. She pushed the door open fully, the old hinges creaking. The room was just as she remembered it, though dustier now.

Jaden’s desk sat in the corner, drawings still scattered across the surface as if he’d just stepped out for a moment and would return any second to finish his work. The bookshelf along the far wall was filled with his favorite books, spines worn from use. A jacket still hung on the back of the chair.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped inside, the familiar scent of leather and draft paper filling her nostrils. For a moment, she stood frozen in the doorway, her fingers clutching the frame as memories came rushing back—Jaden sitting at that desk, lost in thought, the way he’d look up and smile when she walked in, the sound of his voice as he explained the intricacies of one of his sketches.

Move.

Thorn walked over to the desk, her hand hovering over the surface before she finally allowed her fingers to brush against the papers. They were brittle now, the edges yellowed with age.

She picked up a photograph, her chest tightening as she looked at the image of Jaden, smiling at the camera, his arm around her waist. They’d been so happy back then, so sure of their future.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and Thorn quickly brushed it away, but more followed. She clutched the photo to her chest, her breath hitching as the grief she was barely keeping at bay broke through again.

She cried for Jaden, for the life they’d planned together that had been so cruelly taken from them. She cried for the love they’d shared, a love that had been perfect and flawed and everything in between. And she cried for herself, for the woman she’d been before his death, and the woman she was now.

When the tears finally subsided, she was left feeling hollow, exhausted.

She looked down at the photograph, and carefully set it back on the desk. Slowly, she stood, her legs unsteady as she wiped away the last of her tears.

Enough now.

She knew what she had to do.

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