Chapter 9 – Secrets on Paper
Chapter 9 – Secrets on Paper
Aurora stared at the envelope Damon had handed her before he left the night before. It was thick—old-school, sealed with a golden sticker bearing the Thorne crest. His family’s crest.
She hadn’t opened it. Not because she was afraid of what it might contain, but because a part of her didn’t want to see proof—proof that Damon was telling the truth, or worse, proof that he wasn’t. And somehow, the unknown was safer than confirmation.
The morning sun slanted into the apartment, casting soft golden stripes across her hardwood floor. Caleb was at school. Damon had gone to a board meeting. And she had time.
With a slow breath, she peeled back the seal.
Inside was a letter. Handwritten.
Aurora,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve already seen Caleb. I hope he smiled. I hope I didn’t mess it up.
She blinked. It wasn’t from Damon.
It was from his mother.
I knew about you. All those years ago. Damon told me, in a rare moment of rebellion. He was so young, and so very much in love. You reminded me of myself when I was his age. Fierce. Warm. Unwilling to bend for a world that demanded too much.
But I also knew my husband would never accept you. He had plans. Old money doesn’t bend easily, and old men bend even less. Damon was threatened, cornered. And in his panic, he chose the family name.
But he never forgot you. That’s not just sentiment, Aurora. That’s fact. I saw it every time he looked at another woman and blinked like he couldn’t remember why he was there. I saw it in the way he refused every engagement proposal my husband pushed onto him.
I kept tabs on you. Quietly. I knew about the boy. I wanted to reach out. I didn’t. That’s my guilt to carry.
But now that I’m gone, my son must decide what kind of father he wants to be. And what kind of man. I hope you’ll let him prove himself.
With care,
Isabelle Thorne
Aurora folded the letter with shaking hands.
Damon hadn’t told her his mother had known. That she’d watched from the sidelines.
That she had—possibly—been the one Thorne in the whole rotten tree who cared.
She picked up her phone, hesitated, then typed:
Aurora: You should have told me about your mother.
A moment later, the three dots appeared.
Damon: I didn’t want to use her memory to earn your forgiveness. That would’ve been cheap.
Aurora: It wouldn’t have been cheap. It would’ve been honest.
Damon: I’m still learning how to be that with you. I’ll get there.
She didn’t reply.
---
Later that day, Aurora sat on the floor of Caleb’s bedroom, sorting through clothes that no longer fit him. His closet was a graveyard of past growth spurts—tiny shoes, superhero shirts, jackets with sleeves too short.
She pulled down a box labeled “Baby Things.”
Inside were memories: hospital bracelets, his first onesie, a photograph of her mother holding Caleb in a sun-drenched hospital room. A pang tore through her chest.
And then, something else—a folder marked “CONFIDENTIAL.”
She frowned.
It wasn’t hers.
Opening it, her eyes widened. Scans. DNA results. Legal documents. Stamped with the Thorne family seal.
It wasn’t just a paternity test.
It was a contract.
One she’d never signed.
“Custody agreement – Aurora Calvetti & Damon Thorne”
With a lump forming in her throat, she scanned it.
Clause 14: In the event of incapacitation or death of Aurora Calvetti, Damon Thorne reserves full parental custody rights.
Clause 18: If the child’s existence is made public without Damon’s consent, Aurora’s guardianship is subject to review.
Review by whom?
Her heart pounded. She flipped the final page.
Signed by Gregory Thorne.
Not Damon.
But his father.
There was a post-it attached.
“For emergencies. Lock it away.” – D.T.
A chill slid down her spine.
Was this Damon’s way of protecting Caleb? Or preparing to take him?
Her phone buzzed. A call. From an unknown number.
She answered cautiously.
“Miss Calvetti,” a slick voice said. “You’re being watched.”
“What?”
“Tell Damon to stay quiet. The board is not happy. And his enemies are less forgiving than you.”
Click.
The line went dead.
---
Downtown, Damon was in his office, the cityscape sprawling out behind him like a shattered dream. He stared at the report on his desk.
"Thorne Holdings: Internal Leak Suspected. Code-name Zurich."
His father’s secret clinic. The place no press ever found. Where hush-money flowed like blood.
He glanced at the portrait on the wall of Gregory Thorne, forever frozen in a smug half-smile.
There was a knock.
His assistant peeked in. “Sir, your father’s attorney just arrived. He says it’s urgent.”
Damon rose. “Send him in.”
The man who entered was tall, lean, and gray around the edges. With the kind of tailored arrogance that came from years of cleaning up after kings.
“Mr. Thorne,” he said curtly. “We have a problem.”
“I know,” Damon said, motioning him to a seat.
“No, you don’t. This is bigger than Zurich. It’s your mother’s shares.”
Damon’s brow furrowed. “What about them?”
“She transferred them—to your son.”
Silence.
“My son is six.”
“She made it legally binding through a guardian trust. Executable the day he turns eighteen. It gives him 27% of Thorne Holdings. Enough to tip the scale.”
Damon sat down, slow and cold.
His mother had made Caleb powerful.
Which meant…
His father would never let him live in peace.
---
By sunset, Aurora sat in the café across from her apartment. Damon arrived five minutes late, tension evident in every stride.
He slid into the booth, leaned forward. “Why was there a custody contract in Caleb’s closet?”
“I was going to ask you that,” she said tightly.
“I wrote that post-it two years ago. My father drafted that contract. I never signed it. I kept it in my safe in case things went wrong with the board.”
“So why is it in my house?”
“Someone planted it,” he said darkly.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But it means they’ve been inside. Probably looking for Caleb’s location. Or… leverage.”
Aurora paled. “Someone’s watching us.”
Damon reached for her hand. “Then we don’t let them win.”
“You said you’d keep him safe.”
“I will.”
“This is bigger than you, Damon,” she snapped. “Your family doesn’t just play chess. They burn the board.”
“I’ll build a new one,” he said. “One they can’t burn.”
She looked at him. Really looked. He was a man torn in three—between guilt, power, and the unrelenting ache to make things right.
“If you want to protect him,” she whispered, “don’t just fight your father. Fight like a father.”
“I will,” he said, voice breaking. “Starting now.”
---
Far above, on a rooftop not far from the café, a man in a dark coat lowered a camera lens.
He dialed a number.
“They met. Confirmed location of both targets. Awaiting instructions.”
A pause.
Then the reply:
“Make sure they believe it’s love. Then strike.”
---