Chapter 3 A Maze of Emotions

Hart Industries occupied the top fifteen floors of a gleaming skyscraper downtown. The security guards nodded respectfully to Damien as we passed through the lobby, their curious glances at me barely concealed. Word traveled fast—the long-lost Hart daughter had returned.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Damien asked as we stepped into a private elevator.

"It's exactly as Mother described," I replied, watching the numbers climb. "Though I suspect she remembers a different version of it."

Damien inserted a key card for the executive floor. "Catherine was quite involved before... before she left. Her office is still there, actually."

This surprised me. "After fifteen years?"

"Charles never allowed anyone to clear it out. I think some part of him always expected her to return."

The elevator doors opened to reveal a reception area decorated in understated luxury—marble floors, modern art, and the Hart family crest prominently displayed. A sleek blonde woman rose from behind an imposing desk.

"Mr. Wells, your three o'clock called to reschedule, and Tokyo sent over the revised contracts." Her eyes flickered to me with professional curiosity.

"Thank you, Angela. This is Vivian Hart, Charles's granddaughter. She'll be touring the offices today."

Angela's perfectly maintained expression revealed just a flicker of surprise before she smiled warmly. "Of course. Welcome to Hart Industries, Miss Hart. Can I get you anything?"

"We're fine, thank you," Damien answered before I could respond. His hand settled lightly on the small of my back, guiding me past reception. The casual intimacy of his touch sent warmth spreading through me, despite my determination to remain detached.

The executive floor was a hive of activity—people in expensive suits hurrying between glass-walled offices, speaking in hushed, important tones. Damien guided me through the maze with practiced ease, introducing me to key personnel who greeted me with varying degrees of genuine welcome.

"This is where the real work happens," he explained as we entered a cavernous room filled with screens displaying financial data. "The trading floor. Hart Industries began as an investment firm before diversifying."

"And now?" I asked, watching the choreographed chaos of traders calling numbers and analysts hunched over computers.

"Now we have fingers in virtually every pie—technology, pharmaceuticals, real estate, media." There was unmistakable pride in his voice. "Your grandfather built an empire."

"With my father's help," I added pointedly. "Before his death."

Something flickered across Damien's face—discomfort, perhaps, or caution. "Yes. Alexander Hart was brilliant. His loss was... significant."

"I barely remember him," I admitted, the familiar ache of that absence tightening my chest. "I was only three when he died."

Damien's expression softened. "He would be proud of you. Columbia on scholarship is no small achievement."

The compliment, unexpected and seemingly genuine, caught me off guard. Before I could respond, his phone chimed.

"Excuse me," he said, checking the screen. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Emily. I need to take this."

He stepped away, voice dropping as he answered. I pretended to study a nearby monitor while straining to hear his conversation.

"Yes, I'm with her now... No, just the standard tour... Emily, that's not—" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Yes. I'll bring her back by five." Another pause. "I know. You too."

When he returned, his expression was carefully neutral. "Shall we continue? There's something I particularly want to show you."

We took the elevator to the thirteenth floor—Research and Development. Unlike the polished executive level, this floor hummed with creative energy. Glass-walled laboratories revealed scientists in white coats, while open workspaces housed young people in casual attire hunched over computers.

"This is where innovation happens," Damien explained, his enthusiasm genuine. "The future of Hart Industries."

He led me to a particular lab where a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was examining something through a microscope.

"Dr. Sophie Chen," Damien called. "I have someone you should meet."

The woman looked up, removing her glasses. Her eyes widened when she saw me. "My God," she breathed. "You look just like her."

"Sophie was a close friend of your mother's," Damien explained. "And one of our most valuable research directors."

Dr. Chen approached slowly, studying my face with unconcealed wonder. "Catherine's daughter. I've thought about you often over the years, wondered how you were growing up." She smiled warmly. "Welcome home, Vivian."

Unlike the polite, curious greetings I'd received elsewhere in the building, Sophie's welcome felt genuine. I found myself returning her smile with equal warmth.

"Damien, could I steal Vivian for a few minutes?" Sophie asked. "Girl talk."

He hesitated, glancing at his watch. "Fifteen minutes. I need to show her the archives before we head back."

Once he left, Sophie's professional demeanor softened completely. "Let me look at you," she said, guiding me to her office. "The spitting image of Catherine at your age, though I see Alexander in your smile."

"You knew my father well?" I asked eagerly.

"We were at MIT together. Brilliant man, terrible at karaoke." She laughed at the memory, then grew serious. "I was heartbroken when Catherine took you away, but I understood why."

This caught my attention. "Did you? Because I'm still trying to understand it myself."

Sophie's expression turned cautious. "That's a conversation for your mother, not me." She changed the subject smoothly. "So, Damien Wells is giving you the grand tour? Interesting."

"Why interesting?" I asked, perhaps too quickly.

A knowing smile touched her lips. "Because Damien doesn't do tours. He's Charles's right hand, groomed to take over the company someday—presumably with Emily by his side as the Hart heiress." She studied me carefully. "His interest in you complicates matters."

"There's no interest," I said firmly. "He's with Emily."

"Mmm," Sophie hummed noncommittally. "Well, regardless, I'm glad you're back. This place needs shaking up." She reached for a business card. "My private number. Call me anytime, for any reason."

"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched. "It's nice to have one person here who doesn't look at me like I'm an intruder."

"Oh, you are an intruder," Sophie replied with surprising candor. "You're disrupting fifteen years of carefully constructed plans. That makes you dangerous—and interesting." She winked. "Just like your mother."

When Damien returned, Sophie embraced me like an old friend. "Don't be a stranger," she called as we left. "And Damien—bring her back soon."

"You made an impression," he observed as we walked toward the archives. "Sophie doesn't warm up to people easily."

"She knew my parents," I replied simply. "She sees them in me."

Damien studied me for a moment. "It's more than that. You have a quality that makes people... notice you."

The intensity of his gaze made my heart beat faster. I forced myself to remember Emily, to remember my purpose here. "The archives?"

The archives occupied a climate-controlled room in the basement—rows of files documenting the company's history. Damien led me to a specific cabinet, withdrawing a thick folder.

"Your father's original business plan for Hart Pharmaceuticals," he explained, setting it before me. "His handwritten notes are in the margins. I thought you might want to see it."

The gesture was unexpectedly thoughtful. As I ran my fingers over my father's handwriting—the tangible evidence of his existence—emotion threatened to overwhelm me.

"Thank you," I whispered, not trusting my voice for more.

Damien's hand covered mine briefly. "He was a visionary. The company lost something vital when he died."

We stood close—too close—in the quiet of the archives. The air between us seemed charged with unspoken things, possibilities I shouldn't be considering. His eyes dropped briefly to my lips, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought he might lean in.

Instead, he stepped back, clearing his throat. "We should head back. Emily's expecting us."

The drive back to the estate was filled with a tension neither of us acknowledged. I stared out the window, mind racing with everything I'd learned, everything I'd felt. Damien was Emily's boyfriend, being groomed to run my family's company. He was, by definition, forbidden territory. Yet the electricity between us was undeniable—and dangerous.

As we approached the estate gates, Damien suddenly pulled onto a side road, stopping the car beneath the shelter of ancient oak trees.

"There's something you should know," he said, turning to face me fully. "Something about Emily."

My pulse quickened. "What about her?"

His expression was troubled, conflicted. "She's... not what she seems. Neither is your grandfather. The stories you've been told about why your mother left—they're not entirely accurate."

"Then tell me the truth," I urged, leaning toward him.

"It's complicated." His eyes searched mine. "I need to be careful. There are things at stake that you don't understand yet."

"Then help me understand," I whispered.

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of us in that car, surrounded by the lengthening shadows of evening. Damien's gaze dropped to my lips again, and this time, the tension between us was almost unbearable.

The sound of his phone shattering the moment made us both jump. Emily's name flashed on the screen.

Damien cursed softly, answering with forced normalcy. "We're just arriving... Yes, the tour went well... Of course."

When he hung up, the spell was broken. "Emily's waiting at the main entrance," he said, his professional mask firmly back in place. "She's... concerned about how long we've been gone."

As we approached the house, I saw Emily standing on the steps, her perfect posture radiating displeasure despite her smile. When Damien helped me from the car—a courtesy that lingered a second too long—her eyes narrowed fractionally.

"There you are!" she called, descending to kiss Damien possessively on the lips. "I was beginning to worry."

"No need," he replied easily. "Vivian was just getting acquainted with her heritage."

Emily's arm snaked around his waist. "How fascinating for her. Now, darling, we have dinner reservations at eight."

As they turned to leave, Emily glanced back at me, triumph clear in her gaze. The message was unmistakable: He is mine. All of this is mine.

I watched them walk away, the memory of what had almost happened in the car still tingling on my skin. Whatever game Damien was playing, whatever secrets he knew, one thing was becoming dangerously clear—my plan to reclaim my birthright was becoming complicated by feelings I hadn't anticipated and couldn't afford.