The rain hadn't stopped since the night began. It came down in steady sheets over the city, washing the marble driveways of the Morelle mansion and painting the world in muted silver.
Inside, the lights burned dimly — golden, expensive, but cold. Servants moved quietly through the hallways, and the sound of soft whispers lingered behind every door. The name Clarissa hung in the air like a ghost that refused to rest.
And in the center of it all, Mr. Ryan worked.
He had turned one of the mansion's libraries into his investigation room. Maps were pinned to the walls; notes written in tight, careful handwriting filled the desk. He was building something — a picture, a pattern. A truth.
Clarissa's phone call still haunted him. Fifteen minutes before her disappearance. The timing, the silence, the burner number that vanished hours later.
Someone had planned this with precision.
And that someone, Ryan was beginning to believe, was much closer to the family than anyone dared imagine.
---
Across the mansion, Ethan paced in his study. He hadn't gone out in days, afraid of the cameras and the eyes that watched from every corner. His phone buzzed constantly — reporters, detectives, business partners — all demanding statements he couldn't give.
A soft knock came at the door. He froze.
Then the voice — low, familiar, careful.
"It's me."
He opened the door just enough for Amira Lane to slip in. She was dressed in a long, dark coat, her hair tied back, her eyes darting nervously around the room.
"You shouldn't be here," Ethan muttered, shutting the door behind her.
"I know," she whispered, stepping closer. "But I can't stand being in that house anymore. Helena keeps looking at me like I did something wrong. I can't take it."
Ethan ran a hand through his hair, exhausted. "We both knew this wouldn't stay hidden forever."
Amira looked up at him, her voice trembling. "Do you think Ryan suspects us?"
Ethan turned away, facing the rain outside. "He suspects everyone. But yes… I think he's watching me."
Amira swallowed. "Then what do we do?"
He looked back at her — tired, desperate, and guilty. "We stay quiet. No calls. No messages. No meeting unless necessary."
But the way he said it, the way his voice broke at necessary, made Amira step forward. "Ethan," she whispered, "we can't keep pretending. Not when everything feels like it's falling apart."
He hesitated, his eyes softening. "If anyone finds out about us, Amira, it's over. For both of us."
She took his hand anyway. "It already is."
Their silence spoke louder than words — two souls bound by guilt and something they could no longer deny.
---
Meanwhile, in the east library, Mr. Ryan adjusted his glasses and stared at the screen in front of him. He had finally cracked the call record encryption.
A low voice recording came through — faint, filled with static. It wasn't clear enough to identify, but one thing stood out: a second voice, male, calm, careful.
> "You have to come alone, Clarissa. No guards. You know why."
Then the line cut off.
Ryan's eyes narrowed. He replayed the audio again, this time isolating the background sound — a faint hum, like machinery.
A factory? No. A generator. Somewhere outside the city.
He scribbled a note:
"East outskirts – generator noise – industrial area – contact signal 10:47PM."
Then he noticed something else. The call's timestamp matched exactly with the time Ethan's phone had gone offline that same night.
He froze.
Two minutes before the call, Ethan's location ping had disappeared from the home network. His phone had been turned off.
Ryan sat back, processing. Coincidence — or connection?
He reached for the house intercom. "Tell Lord Damien I need a word," he said to one of the guards.
---
When he arrived in the study, Lord Damien was by the fireplace, staring into the flames. He looked older now — tired, broken, his wealth unable to buy back what he'd lost.
"Ryan," he said quietly, "tell me you have something."
Ryan placed the file on the table. "I do. But it's not good."
He explained what he'd found — the burner call, the male voice, the exact timing of Ethan's phone going offline.
Damien's jaw tightened with every word. "You think Ethan knows something."
"I think," Ryan said carefully, "that he's not telling us everything. And I also think Amira Lane is involved in more than she appears."
Damien looked up sharply. "Amira? Clarissa's friend?"
Ryan nodded. "They've been meeting in secret. I saw them together last night."
Damien's expression darkened. "Find out what they're hiding. I want no mercy, no hesitation. If Ethan had anything to do with my daughter's disappearance—"
"I'll find the proof," Ryan interrupted calmly.
He closed the folder, his expression unreadable.
---
That night, the mansion seemed to breathe with tension.
Amira returned to her room, her heart pounding. She had seen a shadow outside Ethan's door earlier — someone watching. She didn't know who, but she felt eyes on her.
She went to her desk, opened her drawer, and took out her phone.
There was one unread message. No number. No name.
Just four words:
"He knows. Be careful."
Her hand shook as she dropped the phone on the table.
Outside, lightning flashed over the mansion — bright enough to reveal a man standing in the courtyard, his coat dripping, his gaze fixed on the east wing window.
Mr. Ryan.
He whispered to himself, "Every secret leaves a trace."
And somewhere, far away in a dimly lit room, a woman's faint voice cried out into the darkness — Clarissa's.
The pieces were moving, and for the first time, Mr. Ryan knew — this wasn't just a kidnapping.
It was the beginning of something much darker.