For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The hallway was dim, shadows pooling in the corners, the scent of cedar faint in the air. Lena stood a few steps away, her auburn hair catching what little light there was, her expression halfway between amusement and something else — something unreadable.
"You don't remember me," she said, not accusing, just stating a fact.
Noah hesitated. "No. I—" He stopped himself, because how do you explain to someone that you don't just forget them, you forget yourself?
Her smile didn't fade, but her eyes dimmed slightly. "That's okay. You were five. People change. Names change." She tilted her head. "But you still have the scar."
He blinked. "Scar?"
She stepped closer and, without asking, brushed his hair back near his temple. Her fingertips were warm. "Right there. You got it when you fell out of the lemon tree. You cried for an hour until I dared you to eat an entire jar of olives to distract you."
Something flickered in his mind — not a clear memory, but the feeling of sunlight in his eyes, sticky juice on his fingers, a girl's laughter. Then it was gone.
"I…" He swallowed. "I don't remember the tree. Or the olives. Or you."
Lena stepped back, hands sliding into her cardigan pockets. "Then I guess we start over."
She looked him up and down. "So. You're Nathaniel Sterling. The boy who vanished. The miracle return. The one who's about to make every board member in your father's company panic."
"I go by Noah," he said.
"Fine. Noah, then." She leaned against the wall. "I've been here since the night you came back. Your mother asked me to stay for a while. Said you'd need someone who isn't… part of the machine."
"The machine?"
She smirked. "The Sterling machine. The security, the money, the people who smile while they're calculating how useful you are. You've already met some of them, I'm sure."
He thought of Callahan, of the way the man's eyes never stopped scanning the room. Of Jonathan's cryptic warnings. Of Victoria's calm acceptance of Project Vesper.
"Why you?" he asked finally.
Lena shrugged. "I grew up here. My mom was your nanny until…" She trailed off, then looked away. "Until she wasn't. I know this place. I know the people in it. And your mother trusts me."
Trust. That word had been in short supply since he arrived.
Before he could reply, a voice echoed down the hall.
"Noah!"
It was Victoria, her heels clicking briskly. When she saw Lena, her tone softened but her eyes sharpened. "I see you've found each other."
"We were just talking," Lena said, straightening.
Victoria gave Noah a small smile. "Good. You'll be spending time together. But for now, I need you in the study."
Lena stepped aside. As Noah passed her, she murmured just low enough for him to hear:
"Careful who you trust."
The study smelled of leather and old cigars. Victoria sat behind an antique desk, a single lamp casting warm light on the polished surface.
"We need to talk about the press," she began.
"I don't—"
"You don't have to speak to them yet. But the leak about your return is already spreading. If we don't control the narrative, others will. And they'll spin it however they like."
"I don't care what they think," Noah said flatly.
"You will," Victoria replied, her voice steel beneath velvet. "Because this isn't about public opinion. It's about power. Every whisper changes stock prices. Every rumor shifts alliances. You've just changed the balance of an empire without saying a single word."
He stared at her. "I didn't ask for any of this."
She softened slightly. "I know. But you're in it now. Which means you need allies. And you need to know who your enemies are before they move against you."
Her hand drifted to a drawer, pulling out a black folder. She slid it toward him.
Inside were photographs — most of strangers in suits, but a few that made him pause. One was of the man in the charcoal suit from the clearing near the estate, though Noah didn't recognize him. Another was Callahan. Another… Lena.
He looked up sharply. "Why is she in here?"
"Because everyone is in here," Victoria said. "And everyone has a file."
The lamp hummed quietly between them.
Noah closed the folder. "I'm not playing spy games."
"Then you'll lose before you even begin," she said simply.
That night, Noah dreamed of a glass house. He was inside, watching rain streak down the walls, when a shadow moved outside. A man's voice whispered his name — Nathaniel — and then the glass shattered inward.
He woke sweating.
Somewhere in the dark, he thought he heard footsteps in the hall.