“Because it isn’t part of the original structure,” Declan says, approaching the fireplace cautiously. “Someone built this recently.”
“Your dad,” Kane says, and the words hang in the air like smoke.
Declan runs his hands along the mantle, feeling for something. “There has to be a reason he sent us here. Something hidden...”
His fingers catch on something, and a section of the stone floor in front of the fireplace slides away, revealing a small compartment. Inside sits a metal box, about the size of a shoebox, secured with yetanother padlock.
“Allow me,” Kane says, picking it up and examining it. Without hesitation, he smashes it against the edge of the fireplace—once, twice, three times—until the lock breaks.
Everyone leans forward as Kane lifts the lid. I crane my neck to see over Rory’s shoulder, half-expecting to find bundles of cash or passports or whatever mobsters typically hide in lockboxes.
Instead, there’s a single envelope and what appears to be an old photograph.
“That’s it?” Rory sounds disappointed.
Kane picks up the envelope first. It’s sealed, with “For Declan” written across the front in faded ink. He hands it to Declan, who takes it with visible reluctance.
“Open it,” Wren urges quietly.
Declan breaks the seal and unfolds a single sheet of paper. As he reads, his face drains of color.
“What does it say?” Kat asks, reaching for her brother’s arm.
Instead of answering, Declan passes the letter to her. She scans it, her expression shifting from concern to shock.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
Kane, apparently tired of waiting, grabs the photo from the box. It shows a younger version of Tomasstanding beside a beautiful, dark-haired woman. They’re both smiling, his arm around her waist, the ocean behind them.
“Who’s the woman?” Wren asks, peering at the photo.
Declan looks up from the letter, his eyes finding Kane’s. “According to this, she’s Kane’s mother. That doesn’t look like the woman I remember.”
The castle suddenly feels very quiet. Even the wind seems to have stopped. I watch as Kane stares at the photo, his knuckles white around the edges.
“That’s not possible,” he finally says, his voice strangely flat. “My mother never knew Tomas.”
“The letter says differently,” Kat says gently. “It says... it says Tomas is your father, Kane.”
“How does that not fucking surprise me?” Declan comments dryly.
I should definitely leave. This is beyond family drama—this is life-altering revelation territory. But when I take a step back, Kane’s hand shoots out, grabbing mine without even looking at me. His grip is almost painful, his rings digging into my skin, but I don’t pull away.
“There has to be some mistake,” he insists, still staring at the photo. “My father was Patrick Murphy. He died when I was fifteen.”
“The man you knew as your father,” Declan corrects, his voice carefully neutral. “According tothis, Tomas had an affair with your mother. When she got pregnant, he paid Patrick Murphy to shut up and claim you as his own.”
Kane’s laugh is harsh and brittle. “What the fuck for?”
Declan shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“So, what, I’m a MacGallan now? After all these years of being treated like the family fuck-up?”
“You’ve always been family,” Declan says softly.
“As a cousin,” Kane snaps. “Not as...” He trails off, unable to say the word.
I stand there awkwardly, still caught in Kane’s iron grip, witnessing what is clearly a monumental family revelation. Part of me wants to comfort him, but what do you say to someone who just discovered their entire identity is built on a lie?
