Chapter 4 Fragments of Truth

# Chapter 4: Fragments of Truth

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the photograph. The woman—Clara Thorne—had my birthmark. Exactly my birthmark, down to the slightly asymmetrical left wing that I'd always thought made it unique. My fingers trembled as I traced the outline in the photo.

"This doesn't make sense," I whispered, even as a deep, instinctive part of me recognized the truth. "How could I be..."

Hayden snatched the photo back, his movements agitated. "Explain this," he demanded, thrusting it before me again. "Explain how you have the exact same mark as my mother. The exact same eyes."

I struggled to find words, my professional composure crumbling under the weight of implications. Childhood memories flooded back—lonely nights at St. Catherine's, wondering why nobody had wanted me, clinging to that silk handkerchief with the embroidered "C.T." as my only connection to whoever had given me life.

"The orphanage matron told me I was found on their doorstep," I said quietly. "Wrapped in a blanket with nothing but that handkerchief. No note, no explanation."

Hayden paced the room like a caged animal. "You would have been born when she was sent away to the countryside estate. Father said it was for her health, but the staff whispered about a scandal." He stopped suddenly, turning to me with dawning realization. "She never spoke of it after returning, but she was different. Hollowed out. I was too young to understand."

The pain in his voice mirrored something deep inside me—a lifelong emptiness I'd tried to fill with duty and service. Could this aristocrat with his cutting remarks and steel-blue eyes truly be my...brother?

"What happened to her?" I asked, needing to know yet dreading the answer.

Hayden's face darkened. "The official report said electrical fire. She was trapped in the east wing study." His hands curled into fists. "I never believed it. She was too careful, too detail-oriented. And there were rumors about my father's business dealings, documents she'd discovered."

Before I could respond, a sharp knock interrupted us. Eliza entered, her face drawn with worry.

"I apologize for the intrusion, sir, but MP Hale has arrived. He's quite insistent on seeing you immediately."

Hayden's expression hardened. "Tell him to—"

"He mentioned it concerns your father's old files," Eliza added quietly. "And the fire investigation."

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Hayden's eyes met mine, a silent communication passing between us that felt strangely natural, as if we'd been reading each other for years instead of days.

"Show him to my study," he ordered. "I'll be there shortly."

After Eliza left, Hayden turned to me. "Stay here. Rest."

"No." I pushed myself upright, ignoring the stabbing pain across my back. "If this is about Clara—about my mother—I need to hear it."

"You can barely stand."

"Try and stop me."

A flicker of something like respect crossed his features. "Stubborn. Just like her." He sighed, then reached for a silk robe hanging nearby. "At least put this on. And if you collapse, I'm not carrying you back to bed."

"Yes, you will," I replied, surprised by my own certainty.

His startled expression quickly gave way to reluctant acknowledgment. "Perhaps."

With his arm supporting me, we made our slow way to the study. I insisted on walking independently when we neared the door, unwilling to appear vulnerable before MP Hale. Hayden positioned me in an armchair before taking his place behind the massive desk.

Hale was a thin man with calculating eyes that widened slightly at my presence. "I wasn't aware this was to be a group meeting," he said smoothly.

"Ms. Reed stays," Hayden replied, his tone brooking no argument. "What's so urgent?"

Hale placed a leather portfolio on the desk. "The police report you requested on your mother's death. They were reluctant to release it after all these years, but your family's influence still opens doors."

My heart pounded as Hayden opened the folder, scanning documents with growing intensity. "This says the fire originated in my mother's study, but spread too quickly to be electrical." He looked up sharply. "It was accelerated with some kind of fuel."

Hale's expression remained carefully neutral. "Old buildings, old wiring. Tragic accidents happen."

"This wasn't an accident." Hayden's voice was deadly quiet. "You knew, didn't you?"

"Your father had many enemies—"

"My father had you in his pocket." Hayden stood, palms flat on the desk. "You were his right hand back then. Nothing happened without your knowledge."

I watched Hale's face, noting the subtle tells of someone constructing a lie—the slight tightening around the eyes, the too-casual shrug.

"The fire investigation was thorough," Hale insisted. "Your father spared no expense—"

"My father," Hayden cut in, "wanted her silenced. What did she know, Hale? What documents did she find?"

A tense silence filled the room. I shifted forward in my chair, ignoring the pull of stitches.

"MP Hale," I said quietly, "I understand loyalty. But covering up murder isn't loyalty—it's complicity."

His head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Who are you to question matters of state?"

"I'm Clara Thorne's daughter."

The words left my mouth before I could consider their implications, but once spoken, they settled into place with the weight of truth. Hale's face drained of color.

"That's impossible," he whispered. "The baby was—"

He caught himself, but too late. Hayden moved with surprising speed, circling the desk to grip Hale by his expensive lapels.

"The baby was what?" he demanded. "What do you know about my mother's child?"

Hale's composure cracked. "It was the old Duke's orders! The scandal would have destroyed your family's position. The child was to be taken away, given to a proper institution."

My hands gripped the armrests so tightly my knuckles turned white. "St. Catherine's Orphanage?"

Hale's gaze shifted to me, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "You... it can't be..."

"Answer her," Hayden growled.

"Yes," Hale finally admitted. "St. Catherine's was discreet, had proper connections. The Duchess was told the child would be adopted by a good family abroad."

A wave of nausea washed over me. All these years, all the wondering, the searching for belonging—and my mother had been lied to, told I'd found a home when instead I'd been abandoned to an institution.

"And the fire?" Hayden's voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Was that also my father's order?"

Hale tried to pull away. "I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me!" Hayden slammed him against the bookshelf. "She found something, didn't she? Something in my father's records."

Something shifted in Hale's expression—calculation replacing fear. "Your father protected the crown's interests for decades. Some matters are better left buried, for everyone's sake."

"She was my mother," Hayden said through gritted teeth.

"And my mother," I added, rising from the chair despite the pain. "We deserve the truth."

Hale looked between us, then something like resignation crossed his face. "She found financial records—proof your father had been diverting royal funds to private accounts for years. She threatened to expose him, said no amount of family loyalty justified stealing from the people."

My chest tightened with a strange mix of pride and grief for the mother I'd never known.

"The fire wasn't planned," Hale continued, his voice hollow. "It was meant to be a warning, to destroy the documents. No one knew she'd be in the study that night."

Hayden released him as if burned, staggering back. "Get out," he whispered. "GET OUT!"

Hale straightened his jacket with shaking hands. "Be careful, Hayden. Some truths are dangerous. Your father had powerful allies who wouldn't want ancient history examined too closely."

After he left, silence descended, heavy with the weight of revelations. I watched Hayden struggling to process everything, his face a mask of grief and rage. Without thinking, I moved to him, placing my hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

He looked at me as if seeing a ghost. "She never stopped searching for you. There were times I'd find her going through old correspondence, making calls to adoption agencies. Father forbade it, but she never gave up." His voice broke. "She died thinking you were happy somewhere, never knowing..."

The realization that I'd been loved, been wanted, hit me with physical force. Tears I hadn't allowed myself to shed in years burned behind my eyes.

Before either of us could speak again, a muffled sound caught my attention—footsteps retreating rapidly from the door.

"Someone was listening," I said, instantly alert despite my injury.

Hayden's expression hardened. "Hale wouldn't have come alone. He never does."

I moved to the door, pulling it open to catch a glimpse of a figure turning the corner at the end of the hallway. My security training kicked in—male, average height, dark clothing. Not house staff.

"We need to be careful," I said, closing the door. "If what Hale said is true, your father's allies might see us as a threat. Especially now that we're asking questions."

Hayden nodded, a new determination replacing the shock in his eyes. "Then we find answers before they find us." He moved to his desk, unlocking a drawer to remove a small recording device. "I've learned never to trust politicians. Especially ones who worked with my father."

He pressed play, and Hale's voice filled the room, confessing to his role in Clara's death and my abandonment. I stared at the device, a surge of both admiration and wariness rising within me. Hayden Thorne was proving to be far more strategic than his playboy façade suggested.

"What now?" I asked.

"Now," he said, pocketing the recording, "we find proof of what my father did. And we make everyone responsible pay." He looked at me, something unreadable in his gaze. "Starting with finding out who tried to kill me—or perhaps us—in the rose garden."

The gravity of our situation settled over me. In just days, I'd gone from being a duty-bound security officer to the lost daughter of a murdered duchess, sister to a man I'd initially despised, and target in a decades-old conspiracy.

"We'll need help," I said. "People we can trust."

Hayden's smile held no warmth. "Trust is a luxury we can't afford. But I know where to start looking." He walked to the bookshelf, reaching for the purple mahogany box with the butterfly carving. "Mother always said the truth was hidden in plain sight."