Claire arrived at my studio forty minutes later.
She threw a stack of printed documents onto my desk.
“I found the company.”
I looked at her.
“How?”
“Old business databases.”
She pointed to a name.
“Blackwood Capital Holdings was registered under a different director.”
“Who?”
“Richard Moore.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is he?”
“Your father’s former business partner.”
I froze.
“Richard Moore?”
Claire nodded.
“I found him mentioned in several Carter Holdings reports.”
I read the documents.
Richard Moore had worked closely with my father.
He had also worked with Blackwood International.
For years.
“Why have I never heard his name?”
“Because most references to him disappeared after the bankruptcy.”
“Disappeared?”
“Exactly.”
Claire sat down.
“There is more.”
She handed me another article.
It was dated ten years ago.
A charity gala.
The same event.
BLACKWOOD INTERNATIONAL HOSTS ANNUAL CHARITY FOUNDATION EVENT
Below the headline was a photograph.
Marcus Blackwood.
Victor Carter.
Isabelle Blackwood.
And Adrian.
I stared at the photograph.
Something about it felt familiar.
Then I noticed a small figure standing near the edge of the frame.
A teenage girl.
Her face was turned away.
But I recognized the dress.
White.
Simple.
A thin silver bracelet around her wrist.
My breath caught.
“Claire.”
She looked at the image.
“Is that—”
“Me.”
Neither of us spoke.
I zoomed in on the photograph.
The girl was standing beside my mother.
And Adrian was looking directly at her.
Not at the camera.
At her.
“That’s impossible.”
Claire whispered.
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
She stared at the photograph.
“And Adrian?”
The room suddenly felt too small.
I remembered that night.
Or at least, I thought I did.
A charity event.
My mother had taken me.
I had been bored.
I’d wandered away from the ballroom.
Then—
Someone had spoken to me.
A young man.
Dark hair.
Gray-blue eyes.
He had asked why I was standing alone.
I had forgotten his name.
But I remembered his voice.
My heart pounded.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“I think I’ve met him before.”
She looked at me.
“Adrian?”
I nodded.
Then I noticed something else.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.
And beneath it—
Keep her away from the Blackwoods.
My blood ran cold.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was a second line.
Written underneath the first.
In a different handwriting.
It’s already too late.