Part 9
Mason saw the realization move through her.
Someone had chosen this estate for a reason.
Someone had chosen her wedding.
And someone had known exactly how to make the appearance of a child feel like a weapon.
Celeste stood.
“We need to check the old records,” she said.
Mrs. Vann looked uncertain.
“What records?”
“My father’s office is still here.”
Mason glanced at Wren.
The child’s arms tightened around his neck.
Celeste saw it.
“Together,” she said. “We’ll go together.”
The office was in the older wing of the villa, past the side corridor and up a short staircase lined with framed vineyard maps. Mason carried Wren the entire way. She had become quieter since the mention of Charles Rowan, her head resting against Mason’s shoulder, her fingers curled around the rabbit keychain.
Celeste walked beside them.
Her dress made a soft sound against the stone steps.
No one spoke until they reached the office door.
It was dark wood, older than the rest of the villa, with a brass nameplate that had never been removed.
CHARLES ROWAN.
Celeste stared at it.
“I haven’t been in here in years,” she said.
Mason looked at her.
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
She unlocked the door with a key from a ring hidden in the pocket of her gown.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of leather, dust, and old paper. Heavy curtains covered the windows. Shelves held legal books and bound financial reports. A desk sat beneath a painting of the vineyard in winter, its dark surface almost bare except for a silver letter opener and an old black telephone that had not been used in years.
Wren lifted her head.
“This is like the room Mommy hated,” she whispered.
Mason’s heart tightened.
“What room?”
“She said there were rooms where people talked about you like you weren’t there.”
Celeste stood near the desk, staring at the papers arranged on it as though they had been waiting for her.
Mason knew better than to touch anything without asking.
Celeste opened a lower drawer.
Inside were folders, old guest lists, estate records, and a stack of envelopes tied with a faded ribbon.
Her hand stopped.
“What is that?” Mason asked.
She pulled out the bundle.
The envelopes were addressed to Charles Rowan.
Most were unopened.
One was postmarked seven years earlier.
Mason saw Nora’s name before Celeste did.
NORA BELL.
The room seemed to close around them.
Celeste read the return address.
Then looked at Mason.
“You said you hadn’t heard from her.”
“I hadn’t.”
“This was sent to my father.”
“I didn’t know.”
Celeste held the envelope like it might burn her.
The seal was unbroken.
Wren looked at it.
“Mommy wrote letters,” she said.
Mason stared at the envelope.
“Why would Nora write to Charles?” he asked.
Celeste’s mouth had gone tight.
“I don’t know.”
“Open it.”
She looked at him.
“This is my father’s mail.”
“He’s dead.”
“That does not make it mine.”
“It could explain why Wren is here.”
Celeste looked at the child in his arms.
Then at the envelope.
Her fingers shook once.
Finally, she slid the letter opener beneath the seal.
The paper inside was yellowed at the edges but folded carefully.
Celeste read the first lines silently.
Her face changed.
Mason waited.
“What does it say?” he asked.
She did not answer immediately.
Then she handed him the letter.
The handwriting was Nora’s.
Mason recognized it at once.
Charles Rowan,
I do not know if you remember me. You met me with Mason Harrow at the opening dinner in Manhattan. You told me that I should be careful around powerful families because they believe any problem can be absorbed if enough money is placed around it.
I thought you were joking.
I don’t think you were.
Mason’s fingers tightened on the page.
He read on.
I am writing because your daughter, Celeste, is involved with Mason now, and I need to know whether she understands what his family is capable of. I am pregnant. Mason does not know. I have tried to tell him, but every time I call, I am warned that I am making a mistake.
Mason stopped breathing.
Wren shifted in his arms.
Celeste stood motionless across the desk.
The letter continued.
A man called me from a number I could not trace. He knew where I worked. He knew my mother’s name. He said that if I involved Mason, there would be consequences. He did not tell me exactly what those consequences would be. He did not have to.
May you like
Your father knows Mason’s father. Your family knows everyone. I am asking you because I do not know who else can see the shape of this clearly.
If you receive this, please contact me before I make a decision that cannot be undone.
