Isla steps inside slowly, reverently, as if she’s entered a chapel.
“This is it,” she whispers.
Callum follows, letting go of the door, which doesn’t close completely.
Isla moves deeper, scanning the shelves.Her breath fogs faintly in the cold air.“He hid this well.”
“He hid everything well,” Callum says softly.
Isla turns, looking at him.The dim light catches in her eyes, making them look darker, more intense.
For a moment, she isn’t the polished pianist or the furious heir.She’s simply a daughter standing in the shadow of a father she never got to know.
Callum feels something twist in his chest.
He takes a step toward her without thinking.
Isla doesn’t retreat.
They stand too close again.Close enough that Callum can feel warmth radiating off her despite the cold room.Close enough to remember her taste, the way she’d kissed him like she needed something to hold onto.
Her gaze flicks to his mouth.
Callum’s throat tightens.
He should step back.
He doesn’t.
The room is silent except for their breathing.For a heartbeat, Callum thinks she might kiss him again.He thinks he might let her.
Then there’s a faint sound behind them.
A shift.
A soft thud.
Callum turns sharply.
The door.
It’s closed, more than closed.The old latch has dropped into place completely, as if settling under its own weight.The heavy iron bolt sits flush.
Callum crosses the room and grips the handle, testing it.
It doesn’t move.
He tries again, harder.
Nothing.
Isla’s voice is quiet behind him.“What is it?”
Callum keeps his hand on the handle, forcing himself to stay calm.“It’s stuck.”
Isla steps closer.“Stuck how?”
Callum tries the lock.The key turns, but the bolt doesn’t lift.Old mechanisms.Damp.Settled iron that doesn’t want to move.
