Page 61 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Safe means keeping me in the dark. Safe means leaving me behind. Safe means not trusting me enough to tell me the truth.

And I am so fucking tired of being protected like a breakable thing.

I shake my head, stepping back. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”

Then I turn and walk away.

I storm through the halls of the estate, getting breathless with each step. The walls feel taller tonight, the high ceilings stretching endlessly above me as if the house itself is trying to swallow me whole. My pulse pounds in my ears, a steady, relentless drumbeat that matches the urgency in my steps.

The estate is too quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind of silence that crackles with the unspoken words. The chandeliers glow dimly above me, casting long, eerie shadows on the polished floors. The air feels heavier, thicker, like the house is holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.

Jayden.

Charles.

Something is wrong. I feel it in my bones.

I turn a corner, the scent of roasted meat and fresh herbs hitting me like a warm, deceptive embrace. The kitchen.

It’s the only place in the house that still feels alive.

When I push open the door, the soft clatter of dishes and murmured conversations come to an abrupt halt.

The staff stills.

A few of them lower their gazes, pretending to focus on their work. The kitchen smells of garlic and onions sizzling in oil, of baked bread cooling on the counter, of rich and earthy smell wafting from the stove. But the moment I step inside, those comforting scents seem to fade into the background, swallowed by nervousness.

Eyes flick to me, some wary, others cautious.

I force myself to stay calm.

“Have any of you seen Jayden today?”

A few of them glance at one another, sharing uncertain looks.

A man in a chef’s coat clears his throat and shakes his head. “Not since yesterday.”

Another woman, older, frowns and wipes her hands on her apron. “No, Miss. Haven’t seen him.”

A few other staff members nod in agreement, their voices overlapping with quick denials.

But I see it—the hesitation in their eyes, the slight stiffness in their movements. They’re lying.

Then—

“I saw him this morning,” a voice says, quiet but firm.

My head snaps toward the source.

Georgia.

She stands near the sink, her hands gripping a towel too tightly, her knuckles paling from the pressure. Her brown eyes flick to mine, nervous but resolute.

I take a step toward her. “When?”

She swallows, looking around as if hoping someone else will answer for her. When no one does, she exhales and bites her lip.

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe… early? Before breakfast.”

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