Echoes of the past
Stephanie POV
The old passport lay on the table like a ghost from the past. I stared at the name printed on it—William Thompson. It didn’t match the man I knew, the sharp-eyed CEO who built an empire. But the photo was unmistakable. A younger William stared back, his eyes bright with a life I’d never seen. My grandfather had a secret identity. A secret family.
Ethan stood beside me, his face pale. He picked up the passport, his fingers brushing the edges like it might crumble. “Who was he?” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
Ethan didn’t answer. His jaw tightened as he flipped through the pages, stopping at a folded letter tucked inside. My hands shook as I took it. The paper smelled faintly of lavender, and the handwriting was elegant but hurried.
“My dearest Amelia…”
I read the words aloud, my voice trembling. The letter was from William no, William Thompson to a woman he’d loved decades ago. It spoke of a seaside town in England, of promises made and broken. He’d left her for America, chasing ambition. Left her with a son.
My throat closed as I reached the end. “You have a son, William. Our son. Please, don’t let him become another casualty of your ambitions.”
Tears blurred the page. This wasn’t the cold, calculating man I’d known. This was someone who’d loved deeply and failed. Ethan sank into a chair, his hands gripping the armrests. “We need to find them,” I said, wiping my cheeks. “They deserve to know.”
Ethan nodded, but his eyes were distant. “Where do we even start?”
I pointed to the address on the passport—a town called Seabrook. “We go there. We find Amelia. And we… fix this.”
The flight to England felt endless. Ethan barely spoke, staring out the window like the clouds held answers. I replayed the letter in my mind. Amelia’s pain, William’s regret—it all felt too raw. Had my grandfather really abandoned his child? The thought made my chest ache.
When we landed, we rented a car and drove through rolling green hills. Seabrook appeared like a postcard—a small town with cobblestone streets and cottages draped in ivy. The salty tang of the sea hung in the air.
Ethan parked outside a cozy inn. “Let’s ask around,” I said, stepping out. He followed silently, his shoulders tense.
The innkeeper, a cheerful woman with rosy cheeks, pointed us toward an art gallery. “Amelia Hartley owns it,” she said. “Lovely lady. Been here forever.”
My pulse quickened. Hartley. The name from the passport.
The gallery was tucked down a narrow lane, its windows filled with vibrant paintings. A bell chimed as we entered. A woman stood behind the counter, her silver hair swept into a bun. She looked up, and for a moment, I froze. Her eyes sharp and green reminded me of Ethan.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice warm.
I clutched the letter in my bag. “Are you… Amelia?”
Her smile faded. “Yes.”
Ethan stepped forward, his voice steady but quiet. “We’re here about William Thompson.”
Amelia’s hands trembled as she set down a paintbrush. “William?” she whispered. “He’s… gone, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “He passed recently. But he left a letter. For you.”
Her breath hitched as I handed it to her. She read it slowly, tears spilling onto the paper. “He never came back,” she said, her voice breaking. “Not once.”
I reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head, wiping her eyes. “It was a lifetime ago. But my son… he should know.”
My heart skipped. “Your son—where is he?”
Before she could answer, the gallery door swung open. A young man walked in, his arms full of canvases. He had William’s jawline, Ethan’s height, and Amelia’s bright eyes.
“Mum, I brought the new—” He stopped, staring at us.
Amelia turned to him, her face soft with love and sorrow. “Arthur, these people… they’re family.”
Arthur froze. “Family?”
Ethan’s voice was barely audible. “William Thompson was my father.”
The room seemed to tilt. Arthur set down the canvases, his gaze flicking between us. “My father’s name was William Hartley.”
“Hartley was an alias,” I said gently. “His real name was William Fiore. He… he had another life.”
Arthur sank into a chair, running a hand through his dark hair. “All these years, Mum said he’d left us. I never thought…”
Amelia touched his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to hurt. But you deserve the truth.”
Ethan stood rigid, his arms crossed. “Did he ever contact you?”
“No,” Arthur said bitterly. “Not a letter. Not a call.”
The silence was heavy. I glanced at Ethan, but his face was unreadable. This was his brother, a stranger who shared his blood. My chest ached for both of them.
Amelia broke the quiet. “Would you like tea? We should talk.”
We followed her to a small kitchen above the gallery. The room was cozy, filled with plants and the smell of fresh bread. Amelia moved gracefully, setting out cups while Arthur leaned against the counter, watching us.
“Tell me about him,” Arthur said suddenly. “What was he like?”
Ethan’s jaw clenched. “Cold. Driven. He built an empire. But he… wasn’t a father.”
Arthur nodded, his eyes hard. “Sounds familiar.”
I spoke up, desperate to bridge the gap. “He left us something. A company. But he also left… regrets.”
Amelia poured the tea, her hands steady now. “Regrets don’t mend broken hearts. But perhaps they can start.”
Ethan finally looked at Arthur. “Do you want to be part of the family? The company?”
Arthur laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I don’t want his money. I just wanted a father.”
The words hung in the air. Ethan looked away, his throat bobbing.
Amelia passed me a cup. “Why did you come here, Stephanie?”
I hesitated. “To make things right. For William. For all of us.”
She studied me, then Ethan. “You’re married?”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “It’s… complicated.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”
Ethan cut in, his tone sharp. “It’s a business arrangement. To protect the company.”
Amelia sighed. “William always did mix business with personal matters.”
The conversation drifted, stories of William’s early days spilling out. Amelia spoke of a charming, ambitious man who’d painted her portraits under the moonlight. Ethan listened silently, his walls slowly cracking.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Amelia stood. “Stay for dinner. There’s more to discuss.”
Arthur grilled fish on a small patio overlooking the sea. The breeze carried the sound of waves, and for a moment, it felt peaceful. Normal.
Ethan lingered by the railing, staring at the water. I joined him, my shoulder brushing his. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t look at me. “I don’t know what to feel.”
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight.”
His gaze finally met mine. “What if he wants nothing to do with us?”
I nodded toward Arthur, who was laughing at something Amelia said. “He’s angry. But he’s here. That’s a start.”
Ethan’s hand brushed mine—brief, accidental. But it sent a spark through me.
Dinner was awkward but warm. Amelia shared stories, and Arthur asked cautious questions about Fiore Enterprises. Ethan’s answers were short, but he didn’t shut down.
Later, as we walked back to the inn, Ethan stopped suddenly. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For pushing to come here. I… needed this.”
The streetlights cast shadows on his face, softening his sharp features. For the first time, he looked vulnerable. Human.
“We’re in this together,” I said quietly.
He held my gaze, then nodded. “Together.”
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Arthur’s face haunted me the mix of William and Ethan, a living reminder of secrets and lost chances. But amidst the chaos, there was hope.
Ethan’s soft breathing came from the bed across the room. We’d booked separate beds, but the space between us felt smaller now.
Tomorrow, we'll face the fallout. The press, the company, the tangled web of William’s legacy. But tonight, in this quiet seaside town, I let myself believe that maybe just maybe we could heal what was broken.