Chapter 5 Confrontation and Connection

# Chapter 5: Confrontation and Connection

The butterfly box remained stubbornly locked. Hayden tried various keys from his desk drawer, growing increasingly frustrated with each failed attempt.

"Mother never let anyone touch this," he muttered, examining the intricate lock mechanism. "Not even me."

My back throbbed as I leaned against his desk, but I pushed the pain aside. "We need to focus on immediate threats first. That shooter is still out there, and now Hale knows we're investigating."

Hayden set the box down with reluctance. "You're right. Security first, then answers." He glanced at me. "Though you should be resting, not planning counterintelligence operations."

"I've worked through worse." I straightened, ignoring the protest from my stitches. "Besides, I have a personal stake in this now."

Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes that made him look suddenly vulnerable. "It's strange. Yesterday you were just an irritating security detail. Today you're..."

"Family," I supplied, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

He nodded slowly. "Family."

The moment stretched between us, fragile and new. Then his professional mask slipped back into place. "I have contacts who can access sealed government archives. If there's evidence of my father's crimes, it might be there."

"And what about the assassination attempt? We need to identify who pulled the trigger."

"Security footage from the perimeter cameras has been collected. I had it sent to my private server." He moved to his computer. "Let's see what we've got."

For the next hour, we reviewed grainy footage, looking for any sign of the shooter. Most angles were obscured by trees, but one camera had captured a partial view of a figure retreating through the south gate—male, medium build, wearing dark tactical gear.

"Professional," I noted. "Military training in how he moves and keeps to cover."

"Can you identify him?"

I shook my head. "Face is obscured. But the way he handles that rifle suggests special forces background."

Hayden frowned. "My father had connections to several private military contractors. Used them for 'unofficial' business."

"We need to cross-reference those companies with anyone currently working for Hale or your father's old associates."

Our investigation was interrupted by a soft knock. Eliza entered with a tray of tea and sandwiches, her eyes still carrying that mixture of wonder and concern when she looked at me.

"You should be resting, Miss Lillian," she chided gently. "That wound needs time to heal."

"I'm fine, Eliza. Thank you." I accepted the tea, realizing I was actually famished.

After she left, Hayden regarded me thoughtfully. "She knew, you know. About you."

"Why didn't she ever say anything?"

"Fear, loyalty, perhaps both." He sighed. "My father ruled this household with an iron fist. Few dared question him, even after his death."

We worked through the evening, piecing together a complex web of connections surrounding the old Duke's business dealings. Around midnight, I could no longer ignore my body's demands for rest, the pain medication wearing off as fatigue set in.

Hayden noticed my discomfort immediately. "Enough for today. You need sleep."

"I'm not leaving this unfinished."

"It will still be here tomorrow." His tone softened. "You're no use to either of us if you collapse."

Reluctantly, I agreed, allowing him to help me back to my room. At the doorway, he hesitated.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For not giving up on this. On her."

"She was my mother too," I replied simply.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Goodnight, sister."

The word sent an unexpected warmth through me. "Goodnight, brother."

---

The next morning, I awoke to find fresh clothes laid out—practical but expensive items in my size, including a specially designed shirt that wouldn't aggravate my wound. A note from Hayden explained he'd gone to meet a contact who might have information about the archived documents.

After dressing and taking my medication, I decided to do some investigating of my own. The butterfly box remained in Hayden's study, its secrets still locked away. But perhaps there were other clues in the house.

I made my way to the east wing, where Clara's private rooms had been located before the fire. According to the mansion's layout I'd memorized during my security briefing, most of that section had been rebuilt, but some original structures remained.

The hallway leading to Clara's former suite was now used for storage, lined with paintings and furniture draped in dust covers. I moved carefully, alert for any staff, though Eliza had mentioned most would be preparing for an upcoming charity function.

At the end of the corridor stood a door with an ornate handle—different from the others, older. I tried it, finding it unlocked but stiff with disuse. Inside was a small sitting room that had survived the fire, preserved almost as a memorial. The furniture was covered, but the bookshelves remained, filled with volumes that smelled of age and neglect.

I ran my fingers along the spines, noting titles in multiple languages. Clara had been well-educated, it seemed. On a small writing desk sat a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with time. I opened it carefully, finding entries dating back thirty years, written in an elegant hand.

The journal contained mostly mundane observations about social engagements and household matters, but several pages had been torn out—the dates coinciding with the period when Clara would have been pregnant with me. Someone had censored her private thoughts.

A noise from the hallway startled me. I quickly replaced the journal and slipped behind a draped armchair as footsteps approached.

"—should be cleared out years ago," a male voice was saying. "The Duke is too sentimental."

"Mind your place," came Eliza's sharp reply. "Those are his mother's belongings."

They passed by without entering, their voices fading down the corridor. I waited several minutes before emerging from my hiding place, heart racing not from the near-discovery but from what I'd found—or rather, what I hadn't found. Someone had deliberately removed Clara's most private thoughts from that crucial time.

When I returned to my room, Hayden was waiting, his expression grim but excited.

"I found something," he said without preamble. "Documents from the National Archives, specifically financial records from the royal treasury during my father's tenure as financial advisor."

He spread several papers across the bed. "Look at these transactions—millions diverted to shell companies, all controlled by a trust in the Cayman Islands."

I scanned the documents, noting the dates. "These are from just before your mother died."

"Exactly. And look who countersigned many of these transfers." He pointed to a familiar name: Malcolm Hale.

"So Hale was complicit in the embezzlement," I said. "That gives him motive to silence anyone who discovered it."

"Including my mother. And now, potentially us." Hayden ran a hand through his hair. "We need to confront him with this evidence."

"That's incredibly dangerous. We should take this to the authorities."

"And who would that be? The royal investigators? Half of them were appointed by my father or his cronies." Hayden's eyes blazed with determination. "No, we handle this ourselves. I've arranged a meeting with Hale at the Parliament building this afternoon. Public enough to be safe, private enough to force answers."

I frowned. "You're not going without me."

"You're injured—"

"I'm still your security detail," I cut in. "And now I have personal reasons to see this through."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But you stay back, observe only. I can't risk you getting hurt again."

The protectiveness in his voice was new—and strangely affecting. In just days, our relationship had transformed from antagonistic to something I'd never experienced: the fierce bond of siblings united by shared purpose.

---

The Parliament building bustled with activity as we arrived. Hayden had timed our meeting during a major session, ensuring plenty of witnesses in the common areas while securing a private conference room for our confrontation with Hale.

I wore a tailored blazer that concealed both my wound and my sidearm, positioning myself near the door as Hayden took a seat at the table. Minutes later, Hale entered, his political smile faltering when he saw me.

"I thought this was a private conversation," he said, glancing nervously between us.

"Ms. Reed stays," Hayden replied coolly. "Consider her my insurance policy."

Hale sat reluctantly. "What's this about, Hayden? I have a vote in thirty minutes."

Without preamble, Hayden slid the financial documents across the table. "Explain these."

Hale's face paled as he recognized the papers. "Where did you get these? These are classified—"

"So you admit they're authentic?" Hayden's voice was deadly calm. "Proof that you and my father stole millions from the royal treasury?"

"It wasn't theft," Hale hissed. "It was reallocation for national security operations. Black budget items that couldn't go through normal channels."

"Black budget?" I interjected. "Or black mail?"

Hale's eyes narrowed at me. "You understand nothing about governance, girl. Sometimes difficult decisions must be made for the greater good."

"Was murdering my mother for the greater good?" Hayden asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Hale stood abruptly. "I never authorized her death! The fire was meant to destroy documents, not people. She wasn't supposed to be there!"

"But you did nothing to stop it," I said. "You let it happen."

"And then covered it up," Hayden added. "Just like you covered up my sister's existence."

Hale's gaze darted between us, calculation evident in his eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth," Hayden said. "All of it. Including who's trying to kill me now."

A flash of genuine confusion crossed Hale's face. "Kill you? I don't know anything about that."

"The sniper in the rose garden," I pressed. "Professional. Military trained."

"I had nothing to do with that," Hale insisted, and surprisingly, I believed him. "But..." he hesitated. "There are others from your father's circle who might feel threatened by your recent inquiries."

"Names," Hayden demanded.

"If I give you names, I need guarantees. Immunity, protection."

"You'll get what you deserve," Hayden replied coldly. "The names, Hale."

The politician's composure cracked. "Victor Blackwood. He handled your father's most sensitive operations. If anyone would eliminate threats to the old guard, it's him."

The name struck a chord—Blackwood Industries was a major defense contractor with government ties stretching back decades.

"And the butterfly box?" I asked. "What's in it?"

Hale's head snapped up. "How do you know about that?"

"What's in it?" Hayden repeated, leaning forward.

"I don't know exactly. Your mother's insurance policy, she called it. Proof of everything—names, dates, account numbers." Hale swallowed hard. "Your father searched for it obsessively after her death but never found it."

As Hayden continued questioning Hale, I noticed a commotion in the hallway outside. Through the frosted glass panel in the door, I saw several dark-suited men moving with purpose—not Parliament security, but private contractors. My training recognized the telltale signs: concealed weapons, communication earpieces, tactical positioning.

"We need to go," I interrupted. "Now."

Hayden glanced up. "What—"

"We've been compromised." I moved to the window, checking for escape routes. "Hale, did you tell anyone about this meeting?"

The blood drained from his face. "My assistant handles my schedule..."

"Who is your assistant connected to?" Hayden demanded.

Before Hale could answer, the door burst open. I drew my weapon in one fluid motion, positioning myself between Hayden and the threat.

"Blackwood sends his regards," the lead man said, raising his own gun.

In the split second before chaos erupted, I locked eyes with Hayden across the room. In that moment, I wasn't just protecting a client—I was protecting my brother, the only family I'd ever known.