Chapter 5: Fractured Gifts and Ghosts

The helicopter's blades finally stopped chewing up the sky as we touched down on the estate pad late that afternoon. My head still throbbed with the rhythm from the flight back from the island, where Victor's call had sliced our fragile peace to ribbons. I jumped out first, boots smacking the wet tarmac, sketchbook tucked under my arm like body armor.

Seattle mist wrapped the glass mansion in a grudge-holding fog. The place felt even more like a fortress now, all sharp edges and watching windows. Griffin followed a half-step behind, close enough that his body heat cut through the chill at my back.

He hadn't said much since the call. Just that calculating look in his brown eyes, weighing how many cards to drop before I ran. I kept my arms crossed tight, paint-smudged fingers digging into my sleeves, pretending the nearness didn't make my skin hum.

We'd barely cleared the foyer when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, jaw doing that triple clench I was learning to read like a warning light. "Your mother's on her way up from Portland," he said, voice low and clipped. "Insisted on seeing the estate. First time."

I stopped so fast my boots squeaked on the marble. Elena showing up here, in his domain, felt like inviting a match into a room full of gasoline. "Perfect. Just what this shitshow needs—a front-row seat for our domestic theater."

His fingers raked through those dark waves, leaving them more tousled. The motion pulled my gaze to the strong line of his neck, and damn if my pulse didn't skip like a bad recording. I bit my lower lip hard, tasting the sting, forcing my eyes away.

The click of careful heels echoed from the formal sitting room before I could fire back. Mom appeared, silver-streaked hair still in its perfect chignon, one hand gripping the strap of her purse like it might fly away. She looked smaller against all this marble and glass, but her eyes held that quiet steel I knew too well.

"Maggie." Her voice carried the upper-class lilt, soft but with an undercurrent that made my stomach twist. She crossed to me slowly, each step measured, then pulled me into a hug that felt equal parts relief and apology.

Her lavender perfume hit me like a time machine—back to before the fall, before contracts and enemies with good jawlines. I hugged her back, throat tight. "The island agreed with you," she murmured against my hair. "You look... steadier."

I pulled away, cheeks heating at the memory of waking up tangled in Griffin, his heartbeat steady under my cheek. "Temporary. Everything here is temporary, right?"

Her gaze flicked past me to Griffin. Just a beat, but I caught the loaded glance they shared, heavy with shit I wasn't in on. My skin prickled. He inclined his head, all polite predator in his rumpled island clothes, salt still clinging to his olive skin.

"Elena," he said, that commanding tone dialed back just enough to set my teeth on edge. "Welcome. Can I get you anything?"

She offered a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "No, thank you. The house is impressive. Though Maggie always did prefer a little chaos to all this... perfection."

The dig landed like a flick of unwanted paint across wet canvas. I shifted my weight, bare toes curling inside my boots, fighting the urge to pace. This visit wasn't social. Not with the way her hands trembled on her purse strap and her eyes kept darting to Griffin like they were co-conspirators in a tragedy I was only half-cast in.

"Let's talk," I said, grabbing her arm with paint-stained fingers. "Upstairs. My studio. Griffin can find somewhere else to loom."

He didn't argue. Just leaned against the doorframe as we passed, arms crossed, watching with those intense brown eyes that saw through every deflection. The proximity sent a traitorous spark down my spine. I wanted to hate how solid he felt now. Wanted it like my next breath.

In the sunroom studio—still carrying the faint tang of turpentine from the canvas I'd abandoned on the island—Mom settled onto a stool. She set her purse down with deliberate care, like it was one of her antique teacups. My secret sketchbook peeked from under a cloth, Griffin's scowling face glaring up from the last page. I shoved it deeper.

"This marriage," she started, voice cracking once before steadying. "Your father... it wasn't punishment, Maggie. It was his last way to protect us. Both of us."

I paced, restless energy making my auburn waves bounce. My hands gestured wildly, leaving faint blue streaks in the air. "Protect us by selling me to the guy who torched our empire? Dad knew him, Mom. I saw the photo—the handshake, the fake smiles. And you knew. All this time."

Her hands folded in her lap, but the tremor was there. Guilt, plain as day. It twisted in my gut like a brushstroke gone wrong. "He met with Victor too. Weeks before. What aren't you telling me? This isn't noble. It's a cage with better lighting."

She reached for her purse again, fingers white-knuckled. "Your father made mistakes. Deals that snowballed. But Griffin wasn't the only villain. The will's contingencies... they were insurance. Against the vultures. Including Victor."

Victor's name dropped like a rock in still water. My stomach clenched. The island call echoed in my head—contain her digging. Mom's eyes met mine, watery but unflinching, and for the first time I saw how much she'd been carrying alone. The passive-aggressive texts with heart emojis suddenly looked a lot like fear wearing lipstick.

My phone buzzed on the table, cutting through the thick air. Portland security app alert. Motion detected at the family home. Broken window. My blood turned to ice.

"Mom. The old house. Someone's there right now."

She paled, hand flying to her chest. Griffin appeared in the doorway like the tension had summoned him, broad shoulders filling the frame. His dark hair was still tousled from the flight, that predatory grace coiled tight under his shirt.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes locking on mine. Not demanding. Just... there. The shift sent my pulse skittering in a way that had nothing to do with the break-in and everything to do with how badly I didn't want to need him.

"Break-in at the Portland house," I said, voice pitching higher like it always did when fear and lies tangled. "Mom mentioned Dad kept files in the attic. About Victor, maybe. We need to go."

His jaw flexed once, twice. But he nodded, already pulling out his phone. "Helicopter's still hot. We'll fly down. You're not going alone."

The quiet offer wrapped around my ribs like an island blanket—warm, suffocating. Mom watched us with something flickering in her eyes that looked dangerously like hope. I crossed my arms tighter, emphasizing curves I suddenly wished he'd stop noticing, and pretended my heart wasn't racing at the way he moved to stand beside me.

The flight down blurred into rain-slicked tension and loaded silence. Mom dozed fitfully in the back, breathing shallow. Griffin sat across from me, elbows on knees, watching the clouds like they owed him answers. I kept my sketchbook open on my lap, pencil scratching out sharp, unflattering lines of his profile—horns optional.

Every bump of turbulence made our knees brush. Each time, heat licked up my thigh like a dare. I bit my lip until it stung, refusing to acknowledge how his cedar scent mixed with the rain made my head swim. Hate and this other thing warred so hard my skin felt too tight.

We landed at a private strip outside Portland as dusk bled across the sky. The Victorian looked bruised in the gray light, broken window gaping like a fresh wound on the side porch. Glass crunched under my boots as I bolted inside, heart hammering against my ribs.

The place reeked of dust and old regrets. My childhood bedroom door hung ajar. Canvases from my teen years lay slashed and scattered, angry reds and defiant yellows smeared across the floor like a crime scene. Paint tubes squeezed empty, their contents ground into the wood.

The violation punched the air from my lungs. Those were pieces of me—abstract screams from the year everything fell apart. I crouched, fingers hovering over a torn corner that used to show fractured family bonds. My throat worked, eyes stinging, but I swallowed it down. No time for that shit now.

"They knew exactly what to hit," I muttered, voice cracking despite myself.

Griffin appeared at my shoulder, close enough that his warmth bled through my shirt. His hand twitched like he might touch me, then stayed at his side. "Attic," Mom said from the stairs, her steps labored on the narrow treads. She clutched the banister, hiding the toll this was taking.

We followed her up. The attic was a mess of boxes and forgotten junk. Mom pointed to a locked trunk, producing a key from her purse with shaking fingers. "He hid them here. After the meeting with Victor. Said if anything happened, these would prove... things."

I pried it open. Dust danced in the weak bulb light. Folders spilled out—financial records, a few emails, a grainy photo of Dad with a shadowy figure. Notes in his scrawl mentioned contingencies and names that made my stomach drop.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I flipped pages. This wasn't the full story. Not even close. But it was enough to crack open everything I'd believed for five years. Griffin crouched beside me, knee brushing mine. The contact burned straight through my jeans.

His cedar scent mixed with attic must, making my head swim. Our faces were inches apart in the dim space. For one suspended beat, the papers blurred and all I could see was the raw edge in his brown eyes. Breath mingled. Heat rose between us, charged and dangerous.

A noise downstairs shattered it—footsteps, too heavy for an empty house. Griffin was up in a flash, that powerful build moving with lethal grace. "Stay here. Both of you."

Like hell. I grabbed a rusted crowbar from the trunk and followed, ignoring Mom's faint protest. The intruder was in the kitchen, masked and rifling drawers. He spotted me, lunged, and knocked the crowbar flying.

Pain bloomed sharp in my wrist. I stumbled back into the counter. Then Griffin was there, slamming into the guy with boxer-honed force. Fists flew. The intruder's grunt echoed off old walls. One punch caught Griffin on the jaw, snapping his head back, but he didn't slow.

Callused knuckles drove into the attacker's gut, dropping him wheezing. Griffin pinned him with a knee to the chest, voice pure ice. "Who sent you?"

The man smirked, mouth only. "Lang says hello. Stop digging."

Victor. The name confirmed the worst hints in the folders. Mom appeared in the doorway, face ashen, one hand pressed to her chest. She swayed, knees buckling as the color drained from her elegant features.

"Mom!" I rushed to her, catching her before she hit the floor. Her breathing came shallow, too shallow. Griffin zip-tied the intruder with cord from a drawer, then helped me ease her into a chair. His hand found the small of my back—steady, not tender. I leaned into it anyway, throat tight, hating how right it felt.

"Hospital," he said, already dialing. His jaw clenched three times as he spoke into the phone, eyes flicking to me like he was calculating risks I couldn't see. The documents burned in my bag. No clean answers. Just more mess, more questions, and this man standing as the only solid thing left in the wreckage.

In the sterile rush of the ER, I paced the waiting room on bare feet—boots abandoned somewhere in the chaos. Faint paint smudges marked the linoleum like evidence. Griffin arrived twenty minutes later, bruise blooming dark on his jaw, hair disheveled.

He dropped into a plastic chair, powerful frame slumping just a fraction. The air between us thickened with everything we weren't saying—the island, the almost-moment in the attic, the way he'd moved without hesitation.

"She's stable," he said quietly. "Stress and dehydration. Keeping her overnight."

I stopped pacing. My green eyes met his, flashing defiance even as my voice pitched higher. "You knew pieces of this. About Victor. Don't deny it. Those contingencies in the will—they weren't random. Tell me what you actually know, Griffin. Or this fake marriage ends right here in this ugly room."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, raking a hand through his waves. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders. His gaze held mine, intense but still guarded. "I have proof your father was being blackmailed. Evidence I kept in that laptop folder you almost opened on the island. But before I say anything else—"

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Anonymous number. The message lit the screen like a slap: Stop digging or your mother dies too.

I looked up at Griffin, the man inches from confessing, the one whose touch made my blood run hot and whose secrets kept breaking me. His expression shifted, haunted, as he read it over my shoulder. The waiting room lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving.

Whatever this was between us—hate, heat, something worse—it balanced on a knife edge now. One wrong move, and we'd both bleed.