Chapter 13: The Gala Fitting

The man standing outside Locker 218 wasn't Damien.

He looked to be in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal overcoat despite the humid afternoon.

Two younger men stood several steps behind him.

Neither crossed the threshold.

"Mrs. Ashford," he repeated calmly. "My name is Victor Hayes."

"I don't believe we've met."

"No," I answered, remaining where I was. "But somehow you know who I am."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Your brother made sure I would."

My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag.

"Nathaniel?"

"He visited me six days before the accident."

The words landed heavily between us.

"Why?"

"Because he believed someone intended to silence him."

Victor looked toward the archive box before returning his attention to me.

"He asked me to watch over certain documents if anything happened."

"You were too late."

"Yes," he admitted quietly.

"By the time I reached the crash site, the police had already sealed the road."

"Who are you?"

"A forensic financial investigator."

"Mostly retired now."

"Nathaniel hired me privately."

I searched his face for deception.

"Why wait three years?"

"Because until last week, nobody touched this locker."

"The moment you signed in downstairs, I received a notification."

So the storage facility had informed him.

Nathaniel had planned even that.

"Did my brother tell you who wanted him dead?"

Victor slowly shook his head.

"He only said the answer wasn't where everyone was looking."

"Then where was it?"

"Inside the company accounts."

Silence settled between us.

Finally Victor stepped aside.

"I'm not here to take anything from you."

"Read everything first."

"When you're ready, call me."

He handed me a business card.

"Don't wait too long."

"People have started asking questions again."

"Including Damien Ashford."

My expression didn't change.

"He doesn't know where I am."

"Maybe not."

"But someone close to him does."

Victor nodded politely before leaving.

Neither of his companions looked back.

The warehouse fell silent once more.

I packed every folder into two archive boxes the manager provided.

The diary remained hidden inside my handbag.

I wasn't ready to understand why Nathaniel possessed something that belonged to Damien.

An hour later, I returned to the estate.

The front gates opened immediately.

News of my temporary return had clearly reached security.

Inside, the house was unusually busy.

Boxes covered the entrance hall.

Florists hurried through the corridors.

Tailors carried garment bags upstairs.

The annual Ashford Foundation Gala.

I had forgotten.

Every autumn, the city's elite gathered under this roof.

Every wife smiled for photographs.

Every husband competed for headlines.

Eleanor appeared from the drawing room.

"Finally," she said sharply.

"Where have you been?"

"Out."

"You disappear for hours while preparations fall apart."

"Guests arrive in three days."

"You are hosting."

"Am I?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Don't start this attitude again."

"Damien informed me about your little divorce stunt."

"You should know better than to embarrass this family publicly."

"The family seems capable of embarrassing itself."

Eleanor's lips tightened.

"The designer is waiting upstairs."

"You need your gown fitted."

"I don't intend to attend the gala."

"That isn't your decision."

She turned and walked away as though the conversation had ended.

I considered leaving.

Instead, I carried Nathaniel's boxes upstairs and locked them inside the guest room wardrobe.

No one would search there.

Not yet.

A knock sounded fifteen minutes later.

"Mrs. Ashford?"

"We're ready whenever you are."

The fitting room had been transformed from one of the spare bedrooms.

Full-length mirrors lined the walls.

Rolls of imported fabric covered large tables.

A tall woman greeted me warmly.

"I'm Celeste."

"I've prepared three gowns for you."

She unzipped the first garment bag.

Deep emerald silk.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

The exact colour of the engagement ring Damien locked away.

"Would you try this one first?"

I stepped behind the privacy screen.

Minutes later Celeste adjusted the final pin near my shoulder.

"Perfect," she whispered.

"Mr. Ashford was right."

I looked up.

"About what?"

"He insisted emerald was the only colour that ever suited you."

I stared at my reflection.

The words felt strangely out of place.

The man who buried my career...

Who mocked everything I created...

Had personally selected the colour.

Before I could respond, the bedroom door opened.

Damien entered without knocking.

He stopped the instant he saw me.

Neither of us spoke.

His eyes remained fixed on my reflection in the mirror.

For the first time in days...

There was no anger.

No accusation.

Only something dangerously close to regret.

"Leave us," he said quietly.

The seamstresses exchanged nervous glances before filing out one by one.

The door clicked shut.

We were alone.

"You kept the fitting," Damien said.

"I came home for my brother's files."

"Not for this."

He nodded once.

Then his gaze drifted to the wardrobe standing partially open across the room.

One archive box wasn't completely hidden.

A single folder had slipped out.

Across the top, in thick black letters, Damien read two words.

HAWTHORNE PROJECT.