The morning sun was harsh, unrelenting as it streamed through Savannah's apartment windows. It painted everything in stark relief—her cluttered desk, the wrinkled blouse she hadn't changed out of, the bruised circles under her eyes.
Sleep had come in fragments, disrupted by half-formed memories and the echo of Julian's voice in the dark.
Because you matter.
She'd wanted to believe him. God, she still did.
But wanting wasn't the same as trusting.
Savannah pushed back from the table, rubbing a hand across her face. The blank document on her laptop stared back at her, the blinking cursor like a pulse she couldn't match. She closed it and stood, moving to the kitchen, needing something—anything—to shake off the weight pressing on her chest.
The coffee was cold. She poured it out.
The knock at the door was sharp and unexpected. Three quick raps. Not Ava. Ava would've called first.
Savannah's pulse quickened.
She stepped lightly toward the door, checking the peephole. Her stomach dropped.
Not Julian.
Detective Lina Marlowe.
Still in her charcoal blazer and with that same laser-focus in her eyes, the woman looked as though she hadn't slept either. Savannah opened the door.
"Marlowe."
"Savannah." Lina's tone was clipped, direct. "We need to talk."
Savannah hesitated, then stepped aside. "Come in."
The detective entered, scanning the apartment with the kind of glance that catalogued everything. She took in the clutter, the cold coffee mug, the laptop still open.
"Rough night?" she asked.
"You could say that."
"I heard about the fire." Lina turned, eyes narrowing. "You were there."
Savannah crossed her arms. "I was. I'm fine."
"Julian Thorne's penthouse. That's where you ended up?"
Savannah didn't answer.
Lina gave a humorless smile. "You're playing a dangerous game, Hale."
Savannah bristled. "I'm not playing anything."
"You think you're the first person to try digging into the Thorne brothers? People disappear for less."
"I'm not just people." The words came out sharper than she intended. "And I'm not backing off."
Lina stepped closer. "Then you'd better decide fast who you're willing to burn to get your story. Because someone already lit the match."
Savannah's breath caught.
Lina softened, just a touch. "I'm telling you this off the record: there's a lot more going on than corporate fraud. Money's gone missing. Offshore accounts. Shell companies tied to foreign interests. And now, arson."
Savannah's mind raced. "Julian?"
"We're looking at both brothers. But there's something else." She pulled a small flash drive from her coat pocket and placed it on the counter. "This was found in a security deposit box rented under a false name. The access logs point to Damien."
Savannah stared at it. "What's on it?"
"Start with the folder labeled Inheritance. But be careful." Lina's gaze locked with hers. "You're not the only one who wants answers. But some of us are trying to stay alive while we get them."
And with that, she left.
An hour later, Savannah sat back down at her laptop, heart in her throat as she inserted the flash drive. The folder opened with a soft chime, revealing a dozen documents and video files.
She clicked on the first.
A scanned copy of an amended will. Charles Thorne's name glared at her in bold font.
Her eyes skimmed the lines.
…in the event of my passing, the primary control of Thorne Enterprises shall transfer to Julian Elias Thorne, provided the conditions outlined in Appendix B are met. In the event said conditions are not fulfilled…
She clicked into Appendix B.
Her mouth went dry.
Condition 1: The primary heir must maintain the public integrity of the Thorne name.
Condition 2: The heir must not be found guilty or implicated in any scandal involving embezzlement, violence, or misconduct.
Condition 3: If any evidence arises of such violations, the inheritance shall revert to Damien Thorne, by default.
No wonder he's desperate to bury everything, she thought.
Then she opened one of the video files.
It was grainy footage. A hidden camera in what looked like a boardroom. The timestamp placed it two months ago. Damien sat at the head of the table, flanked by two unknown men in suits.
"…He's slipping," Damien said in the video. "You've seen the press. If Savannah Hale keeps digging, I won't even need a scandal to bury him. The truth will do just fine."
One of the men asked, "And the files?"
"Julian doesn't even know they exist," Damien said with a smirk. "But if he gets too close… I'll finish what father couldn't."
Savannah froze.
Damien wasn't just playing a power game. He was planning something bigger.
And Julian—whatever his flaws—wasn't the one manipulating the truth. He was being manipulated.
By sunset, Savannah was pacing the length of her apartment, mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. She needed to confront him. Needed to know everything.
But when her phone rang, it wasn't Julian.
It was Ava. Her voice breathless. Urgent.
"Savannah—someone was just here asking questions about you. I think… I think they were trying to find out where you've been staying."
Savannah's blood turned to ice. "What? Who?"
"I don't know. Some guy in a grey suit. No badge. But he knew your name. Said he was from Thorne Enterprises' legal department."
Savannah didn't wait. She ended the call, grabbed the flash drive, and slipped it into her coat pocket.
Whatever game Damien was playing, he was upping the stakes.
And if Julian was part of this, even peripherally, she needed to hear it from him—not a lawyer, not a video, not a detective.
The Thorne estate sat like a fortress at the edge of the city—glass, steel, and secrets rising against the night. Savannah bypassed the front entrance, taking the side stairs to the private elevator Julian had once shown her.
The door opened to low lighting and the faint scent of whiskey and cedar.
He was alone in the study, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
"You came back," he said softly.
Savannah didn't smile.
She walked in, shut the door behind her, and said, "I know about the will."
Julian's breath hitched.
"I know about the conditions. About the files Damien's been hiding. About what he plans to do if you don't fall."
He rose slowly from the desk, jaw tight.
"Who told you?"
"Does it matter?" she said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it's not just about me," he said quietly. "It's about what I had to do to keep that legacy intact. Things I'm not proud of. Things I can't explain."
Her heart pounded. "Try me."
Julian crossed the room, each step heavy with something unspoken. He stopped in front of her.
"I didn't build Thorne Enterprises," he said. "I inherited it. But I've spent every day since trying to make it something more than a monument to my father's sins."
Savannah held his gaze. "And Damien?"
"He doesn't want a company. He wants control. Revenge. The legacy my father denied him."
Savannah reached into her coat and held up the flash drive.
"You need to see this. All of it."
Julian took it, slowly. His fingers brushed hers, warm and calloused.
Their eyes met.
Something fragile passed between them.
Something dangerous.
"Why are you really here?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "Maybe to give you a chance to prove I'm wrong about you."
His breath caught.
Then, softly: "And if you're not?"
Savannah gave a sad smile. "Then I'll do what I came here to do."
The silence between them grew taut.
But this time, neither of them turned away.