Chapter 3: Traces in the Drawer

The therapy room still smelled like her. Eucalyptus and that faint trace of sugar from the coffee I'd watched her dump into her mug like it was medicine. I sat on the rubbery floor with my back against the wall, knees up, trying to map the space the way she'd been forced to. My fingers moved in useless patterns across the cool surface.

Load-bearing lies. Support beams made of half-truths.

Warren had left me here like some unfinished sketch after Elena's little visit. That desperate grip on my wrist still burned. My skin remembered the exact pressure of his calluses, the way his pulse had jumped under my thumb like it was trying to confess for him. I hated how my body catalogued him now.

Like he was the only structure left standing in my personal earthquake.

I pushed to my feet. The floor gave slightly under my soles, forgiving in a way the rest of this house wasn't. Three steps forward. Wall. My hands spread across it, reading the smooth texture like braille I couldn't actually decipher. The door should be left. Or was it right?

Blindness turned every direction into a gamble. My hip clipped the edge of the low table. I cursed under my breath and kept moving, one hand trailing the wall while the other cut through empty air like a pathetic antenna. The house felt bigger in the dark. Or maybe just emptier.

Warren's absence pressed against me heavier than his presence ever did. I found the hallway. The air changed here, cooler, carrying the distant salt bite of the ocean. My bare feet registered the shift from rubber to something harder. Tile. Cold. Expensive.

My architect brain supplied details I couldn't verify. I should have stayed in the therapy wing. Mapped it properly like I'd told myself I would. Instead my feet kept going, pulled by the furious curiosity clawing at my ribs.

Elena's words still echoed. Secrets that bite back. What the hell did that mean? What leverage did she have that could force Warren Fitzpatrick into this twisted guardianship? My fingers found a door. Pushed it wider. His scent hit me first.

Soap and salt and something darker that made my stomach tighten. I shouldn't be in here. The thought came too late, already drowned out by the need to know. He'd left me with more questions than answers. Again.

The dresser first. Smooth wood, heavy drawers. I pulled one open. Clothes. Soft cotton that smelled overwhelmingly like him. I shoved my hand deeper, hating myself a little more with every second. What was I looking for? Proof that he was the monster? Or evidence that he wasn't?

The second drawer stuck. I yanked harder. Something inside shifted. My heart kicked up as I reached in, palms sweating. Papers. Thick, folded sheets. The texture was unmistakable. My breath caught. I pulled them out, letting the drawer slam shut with a sound that made me flinch.

I sank to the floor right there, back against the dresser, legs splayed. The papers crackled as I unfolded them across my lap. My fingers traced the lines frantically. Ink raised just enough for me to feel the notations. This wasn't just any blueprint.

The layout hit me like a fist. My father's old firm. The one Warren had dismantled. My index finger followed a wall I remembered helping design during my internship. Conference room. Executive suite. My father's office in the corner with the ridiculous window seat he'd insisted on.

Tears burned behind my useless eyes. I kept tracing, desperate now. Handwritten notes in the margins. Tight, precise script. W.F. Sell. Restructure. Terminate. One note near the bottom made my stomach drop: Protect C. At all costs.

What the fuck?

I traced it again. Then again. The paper crinkled under my shaking fingers. Protect C. Catherine. Me. The date was from three weeks before the takeover. My throat closed so tight I couldn't breathe properly. This didn't make sense.

He'd destroyed us. Ruined my father. Left me scrambling while he swam in billions. My mind spiraled, ugly and fast. The clean lines of everything I'd believed started to buckle under the weight of those two words.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I jumped so hard the blueprints scattered. Marcus. Of course it was Marcus. I fumbled for it, nearly dropping the damn thing before I answered.

"Kitty. Jesus, I've been texting you. You okay up there in that billionaire death trap?"

His voice—familiar, worried, laced with that brotherly sarcasm—hit me like a lifeline. I pressed the phone harder to my ear, grounding myself in something that wasn't Warren's scent or his handwriting.

"I'm fine," I said automatically. Then immediately contradicted myself. "I mean, as fine as a blind woman can be while trapped in enemy territory. You know. Living the dream."

Marcus exhaled loud enough for me to picture him pushing his glasses up his nose. "This is insane. I pulled some strings, got copies of the guardianship docs. That therapy protocol? It's not standard. Half the board thinks Warren pushed for it himself."

My fingers found the blueprint again without meaning to. I traced Warren's notes while Marcus talked. Protect C. The words burned into my skin like fresh ink.

"Marcus, it's... complicated." My voice came out breathier than I wanted. I cleared my throat, forced steel into it. "The therapy's helping me map the house. Sort of. I haven't walked into any more walls today. Progress."

"Helping. Right." He sounded skeptical. I could hear him typing in the background. "And Warren? Has he tried anything? Touched you? I swear to God, Kitty, if that bastard—"

"He has to touch me," I cut in, sharper than necessary. My face heated at the memory. My hands on his jaw. The scar at the corner of his mouth. The way his breath had gone ragged when I'd traced it. "It's literally the protocol. Don't make it weird."

But it was weird. Electric and terrifying and making me question everything. I didn't tell him that part. Didn't mention how Warren's hand at my waist had felt like the only solid thing in my dark new world.

Marcus kept talking, reading me texts from clients and old colleagues. I half-listened, my free hand still moving across the blueprint like it might reveal more secrets if I just kept touching it. The paper smelled faintly of the drawer. Wood and something metallic. Old.

"You need to get out of there," Marcus said finally, voice dropping. "I don't trust this setup. That Elena woman? She's bad news. Used to date Warren. Knows where all the bodies are buried, apparently. And Kitty... there's talk. About your dad. Stuff that didn't come out during the takeover."

My pulse spiked. "What kind of talk?"

"I don't know yet. I'm digging. But you can't trust Fitzpatrick. Whatever he's telling you, it's got an angle. Men like him don't do anything without one."

I thought about the note again. Protect C. At all costs. My stomach twisted. Was that the angle? Some twisted version of protection that had cost me everything? Or was Marcus right?

"I can handle myself," I said, but my voice cracked. I overcorrected immediately, sarcasm sharp. "Besides, where would I go? Blind, remember? I'd probably walk straight off his fancy cliffs trying to make a dramatic exit. Poetic, but messy."

Marcus didn't laugh. "This isn't funny. I'm coming up there. Tomorrow. The firm's falling apart without you and I won't let that asshole turn you into his pet project."

The idea of Marcus here sent panic skittering through me. What if he saw the way I responded to Warren's touch? What if Warren revealed something that shattered the last clean piece of my hatred?

"Don't," I said quickly. Too quickly. "It's fine. Really. The contract's ironclad. You showing up would just make it worse. Give me a few more days to... figure things out."

He was quiet for too long. "You're lying to me. I can hear it. That thing you do where you contradict yourself and then get meaner. What's really going on, Kitty?"

I opened my mouth to deny it. Closed it again. My fingers had found their way back to the blueprint, tracing imaginary floor plans over the real ones. The paper felt heavier now. Like it carried the weight of ten years I might have gotten completely wrong.

"Nothing's going on," I lied. "Just adjusting to the dark. It's... a process. Warren's been surprisingly decent about the whole thing."

There. I'd said it out loud. The betrayal of my own narrative. Marcus sucked in a breath like I'd slapped him.

"Decent. Jesus. This is worse than I thought. He's getting to you already, isn't he? The touching therapy bullshit. The isolation. It's classic. Next thing you know you'll be—"

The bedroom door opened.

I froze, phone still pressed to my ear, blueprint spread across my lap like evidence at a crime scene. Warren's presence filled the room immediately. I didn't need sight to feel it—the way the air changed, grew thicker, charged with whatever lived between us now. His breathing hitched.

"Marcus, I have to go," I whispered, hanging up before he could protest. The phone went dark in my hand.

Warren didn't speak at first. I heard his footsteps—deliberate, measured—crossing the room. Stopping just short of where I sat. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him. Smell the ocean on his skin like he'd been swimming.

"Find what you were looking for, Nightingale?" His voice was low. Rough at the edges. Not angry exactly. Something worse. Exposed.

I lifted my chin, defiant even though my heart was trying to hammer its way out of my chest. "Your organizational system could use work. Drawers just begging to be searched. Very poor security for a man with so many secrets."

He moved closer. I could hear the rustle of his clothes, the way his breath changed when he crouched down. Not touching me. Not yet. But close enough that the space between us felt alive.

"That was private."

"So's my entire life now. Guess we're even."

My fingers tightened on the blueprint. I could still feel those words under my skin. Protect C. They itched like a healing wound I wanted to pick at until it bled fresh. I held the paper out in his general direction, hating how my hand shook.

He took it. The absence of his proximity when he straightened felt like a loss I refused to examine. Fabric shifted as he unfolded the sheet.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

"Hard to see much of anything these days, Warren. But I felt it. Every goddamn word. Protect C.?" My voice rose. I pushed to my feet, using the dresser for balance. Anger felt good. Clean. Safer than the other things his nearness stirred up.

He stayed quiet too long. I could hear him breathing, that controlled inhale-exhale that probably served him well in boardrooms. Here it just pissed me off more.

"Your father wasn't who you think," he said finally. The words came out rough. Like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep. "Things were happening. Things that would have destroyed you if they'd come out."

I laughed. It sounded ugly even to me. "Convenient. The man who took everything suddenly claims it was all for my benefit. Save it for Elena. I'm sure she'd love to hear how noble you are."

He stepped closer. I backed up until the dresser dug into my spine. No escape. His heat enveloped me. Not touching. Just there. Close enough that I could feel the air move when he lifted his hand, then dropped it again like he didn't trust himself.

"You think I enjoy this?" His voice had gone lower. Intimate in a way that made my stomach flip. "Having you here. Your hands on me yesterday like you were trying to read my soul through my skin. Knowing that if I tell you everything, you'll walk away from the only protection I can give you."

My breath came faster. I could feel it between us, this sick pull. My lower lip found its way between my teeth. The habit I couldn't break even when it made me look vulnerable.

His thumb brushed once across that lip. The touch was so gentle it hurt. My breath hitched. Heat spiraled low in my belly, unwanted and undeniable. This was wrong. The man who'd ruined me shouldn't make me feel like this.

"Then tell me," I whispered. The anger was fracturing. I could feel it crumbling under the weight of his proximity, the raw edge in his tone. "Or are you going to keep hiding behind half-truths and hidden drawers?"

Warren made a sound—low, frustrated. His thumb would be across his jaw right now. I knew it without seeing. The idiosyncrasy was burned into my memory from yesterday's therapy.

The tension stretched. Tight as a cable about to snap. I could feel the pull between us, that dangerous obsession. Hatred twisting into something that felt like hunger. Like need.

His body pressed closer, not quite pinning me but close enough that I felt the solid wall of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart that matched my own frantic rhythm. My hands came up of their own accord, pressing flat against his stomach like I couldn't decide whether to push him away or pull him in.

We weren't touching everywhere. Just enough. His breath stirred my hair. The air between us felt thick enough to choke on.

Then the house alarm blared.

The sound shattered everything. High-pitched. Piercing. Coming from everywhere at once. Warren went rigid against me, his hand dropping from my face like he'd been burned. I heard him curse, low and vicious, as his footsteps moved toward the door.

"Stay here," he ordered. But I was already moving, following the sound on instinct, heart still racing from his almost-confession and the way his body had felt pressed to mine.

Someone was trying to break in.

And for the first time since arriving at this cliffside prison, I wasn't sure if the intruder was the real threat... or if the danger had been standing right in front of me all along, breathing my air and rewriting my history with every careful touch.