Chapter 4 The Diary Discovery

# Chapter 4: The Diary Discovery

Sleep eluded me after the masquerade. Dorian's words on the terrace—the vulnerability in his voice, the moment he'd almost removed his mask—played on repeat in my mind. I rose before dawn, wrapping myself in a silk robe and padding to the window seat that overlooked the estate's extensive gardens.

The house slept around me, offering a rare moment of solitude. In the month since our wedding, I'd felt constantly observed—by staff, by Evelyn, occasionally by Dorian himself. But in these early hours, I could finally breathe.

My thoughts drifted to the newspaper clippings I'd glimpsed in Dorian's study. If I wanted answers about our strange marriage and his true intentions, that seemed the most logical place to start. With Dorian scheduled for meetings in the city and Evelyn visiting her sister, today might be my only opportunity.

After breakfast, I waited until the housekeeper finished her morning rounds before making my way to the second floor. My heart hammered as I approached Dorian's study, half expecting Evelyn to materialize and catch me in the act. When I tried the door handle, I was surprised to find it unlocked.

The study was immaculate—leather-bound books lining the walls, a massive mahogany desk positioned to overlook the grounds. Morning light streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes in the air. I moved cautiously to the desk, conscious of disturbing anything that might betray my presence.

The newspaper clippings were no longer visible, but the top drawer was slightly ajar. I hesitated, the last vestiges of propriety warring with my need for answers. Curiosity won.

Inside the drawer lay a manila folder labeled simply "2009." My fingers trembled as I opened it, revealing a collection of newspaper articles about the accident. "Unidentified Man Found Critically Injured," read one headline. Another stated, "Hit-and-Run Victim Remains in Critical Condition." There was no mention of witnesses or suspects.

Beneath the clippings lay medical records—Dorian's medical records. I scanned them with growing horror: collapsed lung, traumatic brain injury, multiple fractures, extensive facial trauma. The clinical language couldn't mask the severity of his injuries. It was a miracle he'd survived at all.

A notation caught my eye: "Patient responsive but experiencing retrograde amnesia regarding accident circumstances." Had he truly remembered me kneeling beside him, or had he pieced it together from other evidence?

I continued searching the desk, finding nothing else of note until I tried the bottom drawer. It was locked. I was about to give up when I noticed a small key taped under the desk blotter—an amateur hiding spot for someone as meticulous as Dorian.

The key turned smoothly in the lock. Inside lay a leather-bound journal, its pages filled with Dorian's elegant handwriting. My conscience screamed that this was too far, but I'd already crossed too many lines to retreat now.

The journal began shortly after his hospital discharge. Early entries documented his recovery—the pain, the surgeries, the frustration of rehabilitation. Then the tone changed as he began detailing his search for the driver who'd left him for dead.

My blood ran cold as I read how he'd hired private investigators, how he'd gathered traffic camera footage and witness statements. How, eventually, a partial license plate and vehicle description had led him to the Kensingtons.

To me.

"June 12, 2016," one entry read. "Confirmed L.K. was driving the vehicle. Background check complete. College student, 19 at the time, daughter of Richard Kensington. Currently works for family business. Surveillance begins tomorrow."

Surveillance? I flipped forward, finding detailed notes about my daily routines, my habits, even conversations I'd had in public places. Dorian had been watching me for years before our marriage, collecting information, building a file on the woman who'd nearly killed him.

I should have been terrified. Instead, I felt a strange hollowness. This was the confirmation I'd been seeking—our marriage was indeed an elaborate revenge plot. Dorian had orchestrated everything, perhaps even my family's financial troubles, all to bring me into his power.

I turned to the most recent entries, expecting to find satisfaction in his successful scheme. Instead, I found confusion.

"March 3, 2021: Meeting with Richard Kensington today to discuss the merger proposal. Saw L in the office. She's changed—thinner, shadows under her eyes. The accident seems to have marked her as deeply as it marked me, just in different ways."

"April 15, 2021: The marriage contract is signed. Everything proceeds as planned. Yet I find myself questioning my motivations. Is this justice or obsession?"

And then, most surprisingly, an entry from our wedding day:

"May 10, 2021: She looked at me today with such fear when she recognized the scar. I expected satisfaction. Instead, I felt... regret? The plan seems hollow now. But it's too late to turn back. Too many pieces are in motion."

I flipped to the final entry, dated just after the masquerade:

"June 2, 2021: I nearly showed her my face tonight. Some madness overtook me on that terrace. For a moment, I wanted her to see—not to punish her with the sight, but because I'm tired of hiding. Evelyn was right to stop me. But when Lila looked at me tonight, I saw something beyond fear or guilt. And for the first time in years, I wondered if there might be a different ending to our story than the one I've planned. But when she discovers the truth about her father's involvement... how can there be forgiveness for what either of us has done?"

My father's involvement? What did that mean?

The final line of the entry sent a chill through me: "But sentiment would be a dangerous mistake. Especially with her."

The same words Evelyn had used that night I overheard them.

I was so absorbed in the journal that I didn't hear the study door open. Only when a shadow fell across the page did I realize I was no longer alone.

"Finding anything interesting?"

I jerked upright, the journal tumbling from my hands. Dorian stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable behind the half-mask he wore in public. He must have returned early from his meetings.

"I—" Words failed me as guilt and defiance warred within.

"Please, don't let me interrupt." His voice was dangerously soft as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Though I would have expected a more thorough search. You missed the safe behind the painting."

I rose on shaky legs. "You've been watching me for years."

"Yes." No denial, no excuses.

"You planned all of this—the merger, the marriage—as revenge."

He moved to the window, keeping the desk between us. "Initially, yes."

"What changed?" I demanded, gesturing to the journal. "These last entries—"

"You read them. You tell me." He turned to face me fully. "What do you think changed, Lila?"

Something in his tone—a vulnerability beneath the challenge—made me pause. "I don't know. But I think... I think you're as trapped in this situation as I am now."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "An interesting theory."

"What did you mean about my father's involvement? What doesn't he know?"

Dorian's laugh held no humor. "Your father knows exactly what he did. Ask him about the brake lines on my car that night."

"What?" The room seemed to tilt beneath me.

"The accident wasn't entirely your fault." Dorian's voice softened fractionally. "My brakes failed on that curve—that's why I swerved into your lane. The investigation found evidence of tampering. Your father had my car serviced at his company's garage that morning."

My mind reeled. "That's impossible. My father wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't try to eliminate a business rival who was threatening to expose his embezzlement scheme? A scheme that only came to light years later?" Dorian moved closer. "I didn't know it was you driving that night when I began investigating. By the time I discovered the connection... things had become complicated."

"Is that why you married me? To punish him by taking his daughter?"

"Partly." His fingers brushed the edge of his mask in what I now recognized as a nervous gesture. "But as I wrote, the plan has begun to feel... hollow."

I stepped around the desk, closing the distance between us. "What does that mean for us now?"

His visible eye tracked my approach with wary intensity. "I don't know. I hadn't planned for... complications."

"Complications?"

"You." He spoke the word like a confession. "The real you, not the careless rich girl I'd constructed in my mind. Your guilt. Your resilience." He paused. "The way you looked at me last night, not with pity or disgust, but with..."

"Understanding," I finished quietly.

We stood inches apart, the air between us charged with something I couldn't name. Not quite forgiveness—too much lay between us for that—but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

The moment shattered as the study door burst open. Evelyn stood framed in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in our proximity, the open journal on the desk.

"I see our bride has been exploring," she said, her voice arctic. "Finding all our little family secrets, are we?"

"Evelyn—" Dorian began, but she cut him off.

"Have you told her everything? About her father? About the foundation money? About what happens if this marriage fails?" Her smile was razor-sharp. "Or were you too busy developing... feelings for the girl who destroyed your face and nearly ended your life?"

Dorian's posture stiffened. "That's enough."

"Is it?" Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "Remember who helped you through your recovery when everyone else abandoned you. Remember who stood by you when you planned this. Don't lose sight of what's at stake because of a pretty face and convenient guilt."

She turned on her heel and left, the door closing with decisive click.

The room fell silent. Dorian's face had transformed during Evelyn's tirade, vulnerability replaced by the cold mask of control I'd grown accustomed to.

"You should go," he said, not meeting my eyes.

"Dorian—"

"Please." The word sounded wrenched from him. "I need to think."

As I reached the door, his voice stopped me. "Lila. Be careful around Evelyn. She sees you as a threat to plans years in the making."

"What plans?"

His visible eye met mine, conflict evident in its depths. "I'm not the only one seeking justice for past wrongs in this house."

I left the study with more questions than answers, but one thing had become clear: the web of secrets and revenge surrounding my marriage was far more complex than I had imagined. And somewhere in that tangled web, Dorian Blackwood was no longer simply my adversary—he was becoming something far more dangerous to my heart.