The golden glow of the afternoon sun permeates the thick canopy of trees as Rowan and I find ourselves in front of the dilapidated cottage deep in the woods. A palpable chill washes over us, heavy and oppressive, as if the air itself harbors secrets untold. With every step closer, the ivy and brambles tighten their grip, enveloping what was once a quaint home, now reduced to a mere echo of the past. "How could teenagers even stumble upon this place?" I shake my head in disbelief. "No idea," Rowan replies, his brow furrowed with curiosity. "But I’m glad they did." As we exit the car, the silence of the forest wraps around us like a shroud. Javier stands protectively beside me, his hand resting on the holster of his gun — a stark reminder of the danger that lingers in the unknown. At least the police and our national crime agency managed to cordon off the area, removing only the blanket, the blood-stained onesie, and the diamond. They meticulously documented fingerprints, but given the countless kids that had trekked through this place over the years, I doubt it will yield anything substantial. “Jesus, this place is unnerving,” Rowan mutters, his gaze scanning the surroundings, wary. "Yeah," I agree, my voice barely above a whisper as I focus on the cottage's decaying front door. It feels like the set of a horror film, thick with a sense of dread. We tread with trepidation as we scrutinize the exterior, searching for anything that can give us a clue about who took Desta. It’s a chilling thought—how long had they used this hideout? Just one night? Several months? Perhaps even years? “Ready to head inside?” I inquire, glancing back at Rowan. "Honestly? Not really," he admits, his tone laced with reluctance. I let out a nervous chuckle. “After this, I’m going to need something strong to drink,” I murmur, thoughts drifting to Bellamy and the kids. We should try to return tonight if the investigation allows, but the near four-hour drive from here — practically on the other side of the country — doesn’t give me hope for an early night. Flying would attract too much attention. The police might have the blanket on the news, but thankfully, not much else has leaked out. I want to keep it that way until we understand the depths of my mother's involvement in this tangled web. The door to the cottage swings open with a reluctant creak, revealing a darkened interior. The moment we step inside, a wave of stagnation hits us, thick and almost suffocating. The scent of decay infiltrates my senses as we absorb the chaos that reigns within. Sunlight filters through shattered glass, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the air like phantoms from the past. “How did they uncover what they found?” I ponder aloud, bewildered, echoing Rowan’s stunned confusion. “Watch your step,” Javier cautions, his voice low and serious. “This place doesn’t seem stable, and who knows what lurks beneath this mess?” “Christ. What a complete disaster,” I muse, shaking my head. “Let’s get searching because the sooner we begin, the sooner we can leave.” We split up, driven by urgency in the cramped confines of the cottage, which consists of a small kitchen merging into a dining area and a living room, everything heavily marred by time and neglect. Anxiety surges through me, and my heart races as I explore every shadowy corner and creaking floorboard. Clutter surrounds me — greasy takeout containers, rotting food, old alcohol bottles, and toppled furniture. It’s a jumble of remnants and refuse. “Sebastian, come look at this!” Rowan’s voice, charged with enthusiasm, snaps me back to reality. Javier and I rush over, finding him before a dusty bookshelf. He has discovered a hidden compartment at its base, filled with newspaper clippings — all centered around Desta’s abduction. My breath hitches; a sense of foreboding creeps in. “Whoever they were, they were clearly keeping tabs on the situation,” I say bitterly. “Let’s secure them in one of the bags and keep moving.” Javier, ever methodical, pulls on his gloves and takes the clippings from Rowan, carefully tucking them away in a sealable plastic bag. “Fingerprints,” he states simply, and I curse myself internally for not considering that sooner. “Right, let’s keep moving,” Rowan agrees, a renewed determination flaring between us. If those clippings had been concealed for so long, perhaps they held crucial evidence. The lower floor bears no other secrets. We exhaustively comb through the chaos until, heavy-footed, we ascend the creaky staircase spiraling to the second floor. It’s cramped up there, revealing two minuscule bedrooms; one is dominated by a crib, the very same where the blanket and bloody onesie were found. Our breaths hitch in unison, and for a fleeting moment, Rowan and I stand frozen in shock. Brea was taken from us as a newborn, hidden away in hospitals — or so we were told — before being kept far from our reach. Desta’s ordeal had been drastically different, but those memories of when we brought her home, when I taught her to walk…they remain vivid. She was barely two when she vanished, yet those moments feel as close as yesterday. The room is predominantly bare, stripped by investigators, yet Javier diligently inspects the crib, pulling the mattress out and checking the wooden slats. Rowan turns to the closet while I shift my attention to the fireplace. My search yields nothing but dusty emptiness, while in the larger bedroom, two floorboards are missing. “Perhaps something was hidden beneath?” I suggest. “Whoever took Desta must have left in a hurry,” Javier muses, folding his arms and scrutinizing the disarray. “Why else would they abandon the newspaper clippings, diamond, blanket, and onesie?” Rowan and I shake our heads in agreement. "Her tiara, we suspect because of the diamond we found. Her stuffed lion, I think, that was it, right?" Rowan gazes at me, memories flickering in his eyes. “That’s all I can recall. They never found the knife used to kill Father. The intruder had to know how to navigate the palace unnoticed. They were skilled. I only heard a deafening bang in the hall, followed by Desta’s cries. I was terrified; I ran to wake Father. I didn’t comprehend the nature of the sound.” He gulps, guilt etching his features. “Father dashed into her room, yelling something I couldn’t understand. Then there was another bang. He told me to alert the guards. I didn’t go to help him.” “Father instructed you to alert the guards before he rushed in,” I interject. “But the storm was raging. The bang could’ve been thunder, waking me as well.” Rowan cocks his head, confused. “Yes.” “Why did you go wake him instead of going back to sleep?” “I was scared. The bang was frightening. The whole palace felt like it was shaking.” I nod, pacing back and forth. “Exactly. I remember that too. It was storming, but Father urged you to alert the guards rather than dismiss the storm. And Mother slept through it all, didn’t stir until I shouted for her.” All color drains from Rowan’s face. “Do you think he was aware someone was coming for Desta? Or sensed a threat against us?” “I think that’s looking increasingly probable.” “I don’t see why that’s bad news,” Rowan replies later, as we sit outside on the back patio, the distant outline of the Alps barely visible in the deepening dusk. “This may be the breakthrough we’ve been longing for.” After our unsettling discoveries at the cottage, we had decided to return to the palace. That palace, the one from which Desta was taken, was a mere fifty kilometers from the cottage, but like Nora’s helicopter crash site, it has been razed and transformed into a park and memorial. As we drove, fate intervened. A call from the head investigator punctured the stillness of the night. “Yes,” Rowan replied softly, his breath fogging in the cool air, mingling with the smoke rising from his cigar. The clock had nearly struck midnight, yet neither of us wished to retreat to bed; a drink was essential to soothe the evening’s tension. “The blood on the pajamas belonged to Father, not Desta.” He lets the weight of those words settle, taking a sip of his brandy. “Why do you sound so miserable then?” A grunt escapes him. “Because, Brother,” he bites back indignantly, “we’re no closer to finding her than before this revelation. It feels like a wild goose chase, and where will it lead us? We’ll have to engage in an uncomfortable conversation with Mother soon, and honestly, I doubt it will yield any fruitful results.” I lift a shoulder, dipping my cigar into the brandy before taking a measured puff, blowing out smoky rings that dissolve into the night. “I’m uncertain where it will lead us either — possibly to dead ends. It’s been twenty-one years since Desta was taken; she could be anywhere now if she’s still alive. We’ve known this from the start.” “Yes, first my mystery woman vanished, then Bellamy’s father fell from grace, and now all this chaos with Desta.” A grin stretches across my face at the mention of his so-called ‘mystery woman.’ “Ah, so you’re still pining for the one-night stand who slipped through your fingers.” He flips me off, cigar gripped tightly between his fingers. “I might be. I have no means of tracking her down, and it’s driving me mad.” “Was she really that remarkable?” With a hint of a smile, Rowan reveals, “Absolutely. She was extraordinary — enchanting and brilliant. You once deemed Bellamy a delightful nuisance, and I fear this woman possessed the same qualities. But alas, I may never see her again.” “Whoa!” I exclaim, sitting up straighter. “So this was more than just a fleeting encounter? I thought it was merely your bruised pride, but it seems you were actually enchanted by her.” He scoffs loudly, a sound of disdain escaping his lips. “I never claimed to be in love. Love doesn’t bloom in a single night. I am keenly intrigued, however. I’d welcome multiple encounters and want to understand why she vanished without so much as a name or number. Yes, my pride is also quite sore.” “I knew the moment I first met Bellamy that I was doomed to fall,” I share, remembering that fateful encounter. “Well, I had a glimpse and a taste, and while I may be tormented, I’ll never have closure since I lost her without knowing.” “And you’re positive she didn’t slip into the wedding?” “No one by the name of Ella made the guest list.” I extinguish my cigar in the nearby ashtray. “And you’re certain it’s impossible she provided you a fake name?” “She recognized who I was.” “All the more reason for her to hide her identity if she desired to remain incognito.” “Perhaps, but I can’t ascertain any rationale for her to keep herself hidden.” He exhales slowly. I snicker, “She wanted the thrill and nothing more. Maybe she’s trapped in a loveless engagement or held captive by a wicked stepmother, racing back to her miserable life before the clock strikes midnight.” “Very amusing,” Rowan retorts dryly. “Her name was Ella, or so she claimed, and she vanished in the dead of night after crashing a royal event. Not quite a glass slipper, but the irony is delicious,” I chuckle, the humor not lost on me. “You're insufferable,” he shoots back, but a hint of amusement lingers in his voice as his lips twitch. As if on cue, the sliding door opens, and both our heads turn. Bellamy, wrapped in a soft blanket, peeks through, sleepiness evident in her features. Rowan instantly snuffs out his cigar, and I beckon her over, patting my lap. She doesn’t hesitate to curl up against me, stealing warmth from my body. "I didn’t mean to intrude," she murmurs. "Yes, you did. But why aren’t you asleep?" “Do you truly believe I could sleep knowing where you were and what you were up to today? Why didn’t you wake me when you returned?” She glares reproachfully. "I thought you were sleeping," I reply, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. "You haven't been getting nearly enough rest." “Just missed me teasing Rowan about his mysterious Ella,” I add, grinning. She rolls her eyes. “Shame. I’d prefer watching the video from that night.” “Who says I haven’t?” Rowan interjects, now fully engaged. “She came in, saw me, we talked, danced, and I escorted her to my room. It was legendary, but then she slipped away. Just like that, Ella vanished. Javier said he had no clue who she was, and even facial recognition yielded no matches in our databases.” “Did she have any accent?” Bellamy probes, inquisitive. He shrugs, contemplating. “I couldn’t say. Her French was impeccable. I might've been slightly inebriated that night, so I wasn’t fully attentive.” “Then perhaps it didn’t meet her expectations,” Bellamy chimes, a teasing edge to her voice. He shoots her a warning glance. “What I experienced was exhilarating. I can assure you, she was more than satisfied. Several times over, in fact. So that’s the end of it. I’ll dissipate this search for someone who clearly doesn’t wish to be found. Just as we are learning.” “This week has clearly not been your finest,” Bellamy deadpans, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Equally surprising for you, gumdrop.” “I’d raise a toast to that if I could,” she teases. “Here,” Rowan gestures, tipping back the last of his brandy. I mirror his actions, watching the shadows of the trees mingle with the darkness of the night while stars twinkle above us, a melancholic sparkle piercing the somber mood. “I once believed after Samil’s death... things would settle,” Rowan murmurs eventually, a heavy weight hanging in the air. “But the unsettling truth is, it seems the worst is still yet to come.”