Noah didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he stayed curled in the armchair of his childhood room, the fire flickering low, the journal heavy in his lap.
It wasn't Jonathan's journal. Not entirely. It had been written by someone else — or several people — and compiled like a dossier. There were letters. Maps. Transcripts. Photos of men in suits whispering behind closed doors. A network diagram of private companies all tied back to Sterling Dominion Group.
But what shook him the most were the documents labeled "Project Vesper."
They were redacted, heavily. Most pages were blacked out. But from what he could piece together, Project Vesper was some kind of internal cleansing initiative — started after Noah's disappearance — meant to root out "compromised assets."
Names were listed. And beside them, red stamps:
TERMINATED.
He closed the journal, breathing hard.
There was rot in the Sterling empire.
He just didn't know how deep it went.
—
The next morning, he met Victoria on the terrace for breakfast. The Pacific glinted below them, waves rolling like time.
"You didn't sleep," she said gently.
"No."
She sipped her tea. "You read it."
"I don't understand half of it."
"You will."
He looked at her. "Did you know? About Project Vesper?"
She didn't blink. "I know that your father became someone I didn't recognize after we lost you. Vesper was his obsession. I warned him it would poison everything."
"And did it?"
"Yes," she said simply. "But sometimes, poison is the only thing that kills a deeper sickness."
Her calmness scared him more than anything.
"Why are you all so calm about this?" he asked. "You act like this is just… normal."
Victoria turned her gaze to the sea.
"Because in this family, survival always comes before morality."
—
Later that day, Callahan took him on a tour of the estate's private wing — the part the public never saw. Panic rooms. Surveillance quarters. Private vaults. Armories.
"You were raised in a barn," Callahan said dryly. "Now you live in a fortress."
They passed a locked door.
"What's in there?" Noah asked.
Callahan hesitated. "Your grandfather's vault. Not Sterling. Whitmore."
"Victoria's father?"
Callahan nodded. "You'll need his blood to open it."
Noah blinked. "He's dead."
"Exactly."
He didn't press further.
—
That night, Noah wandered again. He ended up in the west wing — a part he hadn't seen yet.
The hall was darker. Less polished. As if even the staff avoided it.
He turned a corner… and saw a woman.
Young. Mid-twenties. Auburn hair. Lean, quiet, barefoot. Wearing a loose cardigan and headphones.
She was dancing — not like someone performing, but like someone remembering something beautiful. She hadn't seen him yet.
Noah froze. Something about her presence was like a bell struck in his chest.
She finally turned.
Their eyes met.
She blinked, surprised, then smiled.
"You must be the missing prince," she said. "Took you long enough."
"Do I… know you?" Noah asked.
She pulled the headphones off and stepped closer.
"I'm Lena. I was your best friend."
His breath caught.
"I used to live here," she added. "Until you disappeared."