Chapter 7: Secrets
1247words
Most rooms were what I expected—minimalist, expensive, impersonal. The guest rooms, the home gym, the sleek kitchen where I rarely cooked. But at the end of the hallway was a door I hadn't noticed before, partially hidden behind a decorative screen.
I tried the handle. Locked.
Curiosity piqued, I examined the lock more closely. It was an old-fashioned keyhole, not the electronic systems securing the rest of the penthouse. On impulse, I reached up to the ledge above the doorframe—a hiding place my father had always used for spare keys.
My fingers touched metal.
"Well, that was predictable," I murmured, retrieving the small brass key. For a man obsessed with security, Alexander had chosen a remarkably obvious hiding spot.
I hesitated, key in hand. This was an invasion of privacy, crossing a line in our carefully negotiated arrangement. But something about this hidden room called to me—perhaps the contrast to the rest of Alexander's transparent, glass-and-steel world.
The key turned smoothly, and the door opened with a soft click.
Inside was like stepping into another home entirely. Warm colors, plush furniture, walls lined with bookshelves. Family photographs covered one wall—Alexander as a child with his parents, holiday celebrations, beach vacations. A stark contrast to the man who kept no personal items in the rest of his home.
I moved closer to the photos, drawn to images of a smiling boy with his parents. In one, a young Alexander—maybe ten—sat between them on a sailboat, his father's arm around his shoulders, his mother's hand ruffling his hair. The happiness in his face was so pure it made my chest ache. This was who he had been before tragedy rewrote his story.
A large oak desk dominated one corner, covered with folders and documents. I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't.
But one folder lay open, its label clearly visible: "Hamilton Enterprises—Acquisition."
Hamilton. The name triggered something in my memory—hadn't my father once mentioned working for a company called Hamilton before starting his own accounting firm?
I flipped through the pages, finding financial reports, news clippings, and photographs. One photo made me freeze. A man in his forties, shaking hands with another executive. The caption read: "Edward Hamilton, CEO, finalizing Tokyo expansion, 1995."
The man looked startlingly like my father—same eyes, same jawline. Could they be related?
"What are you doing in here?"
I whirled around, the folder slipping from my fingers. Alexander stood in the doorway, his expression colder than I'd ever seen it.
"I—I was just—"
"Just what? Breaking into my private study? Going through my files?" His voice was deadly quiet, more frightening than if he'd shouted.
"The door was unlocked," I lied, instinctively hiding the key in my palm.
His eyes flicked to my closed hand, then back to my face. "Don't insult my intelligence, Elena."
Shame and defiance warred within me. "Fine. I found the key. I was curious."
"Curious." He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded final. "About Hamilton Enterprises? Or were you looking for something specific?"
"I didn't know what Hamilton Enterprises was until I saw that folder," I said honestly. "But the man in the photo—he looks like my father."
Something shifted in Alexander's expression—surprise, quickly masked by suspicion. "Your father is Robert Winters."
"Yes."
"And you've never heard of Edward Hamilton?"
"No. Should I have?"
Alexander studied me with unnerving intensity, as if trying to read the truth in my eyes. "Edward Hamilton was one of the most successful businessmen of his generation. Hamilton Enterprises was Blackwood International's biggest competitor for decades."
My mind raced, trying to connect dots that refused to align. "And this matters to our arrangement because...?"
"Because," Alexander said, moving to the desk and picking up the folder I'd dropped, "if you're related to the Hamiltons, that would explain a great deal about why you agreed to this marriage."
"What are you talking about?"
His laugh was cold, humorless. "Corporate espionage. Revenge. Take your pick."
The accusation hit like a physical blow. "You think I orchestrated all this? That I somehow arranged for you to offer me a contract marriage as part—what, some elaborate scheme to spy on you?"
"It wouldn't be the first time someone has tried to infiltrate Blackwood through personal connections."
Anger flared hot and bright within me. "You still don't know the first thing about me, do you? After weeks of living together, after everything—" I broke off, too furious to continue.
"Then enlighten me," he challenged. "If you're not connected to the Hamiltons, explain why you look exactly like Edward Hamilton's daughter in these photos."
He pulled another picture from the folder—a young woman with my eyes, my smile, standing beside the man from the earlier photograph.
"I don't know," I whispered, staring at the face so similar to my own. "I've never seen her before."
Alexander's expression remained skeptical. "Hamilton Enterprises collapsed after Edward's death. The timing coincides perfectly with your father's financial troubles."
"My father's troubles came from my mother's medical bills and his own cancer," I snapped. "Not some corporate conspiracy you've invented."
"Then why did you break in here? Why go through these specific files?"
"I didn't! I was just..." I gestured helplessly at the photographs on the wall. "I wanted to understand you. To see who you were before—"
"Before what? Before I became the cold, controlling billionaire you agreed to marry for money?" His voice was razor-sharp.
"Before you locked away every human part of yourself," I finished quietly.
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, quickly masked by anger. "Get out."
"Alexander—"
"Get. Out." Each word was precisely enunciated, leaving no room for argument.
I placed the key on his desk and walked to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, I had no idea about any Hamilton connection. But I'm going to find out the truth."
His silence followed me out of the room, heavy with unspoken accusations.
Back in my suite, I pulled out my laptop and typed "Edward Hamilton" into the search engine. Thousands of results appeared—business articles, obituaries, corporate histories. I clicked on an image search and found myself staring at the man from the photograph, his resemblance to my father undeniable.
Further searching revealed that Edward Hamilton had died in 2001, his company collapsing shortly afterward due to financial irregularities discovered after his death. His only daughter, Catherine, had died years earlier in a car accident with her husband.
The timing aligned perfectly with when my father had started his own small accounting firm. When I'd asked about his previous work, he'd always been vague, mentioning "corporate finance" without specifics.
Could my father be related to Edward Hamilton? Could I be related to the Hamiltons? And if so, why had this connection been kept from me my entire life?
As I stared at the screen, one thing became painfully clear: the man I'd agreed to marry believed I was using him. The fragile trust we'd been building had shattered in an instant.
And the worst part was, I had no idea how to prove him wrong when I didn't even know if he was right.
