Page 44 of The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

“He already knows.”

“How?”

“He receives live telemetry from every security update.”

“So he knows I countermanded his protocols?”

“Yes.”

“Is he angry?”

Lucien looked at her as though the question were absurdly naive. “Mr. Blackthorne is always angry, Mrs. Blackthorne. Only the target changes.”

Aria nodded, but her mind had already moved to the next obstacle in this crime. She knew she had seen that crescent pendant before.

Hours later, back inside the penthouse, she sat on her bed searching Celeste Laurent’s name on the encrypted tablet Helena had left for her.

Most of the news results were seven years old: society pages, high-end charity galas, and engagement announcements. In every photo, a stunning dark-haired woman stood beside a younger, colder Damien. Her smile appeared delicate, though her eyes never quite connected with the camera lens.

In one particular gala photograph, Celeste wore a silver crescent moon pendant around her neck.

Aria saved the file.

She needed to see what else Damien was hiding in his private office.

This time, the heavy mahogany doors were firmly locked. She waited until the penthouse fell completely quiet, then pulled out the antique brass key Helena used to access the other rooms for cleaning. She had pulled it off the older woman’s cart during dinner. The office lock was modern and electronic, but a narrow mechanical override slot was concealed beneath the brushed-metal panel.

The key turned with a soft click.

Inside, Aria checked his main desk first, finding nothing out of place. The adjacent filing cabinets required bio-numeric codes. However, as her hand brushed along the custom floor-to-ceiling built-ins, one section of shelving appeared slightly shallower than the rest.

She pulled on the spine of a vintage leather volume.

A hidden pneumatic drawer released with a quiet hiss.

Inside lay a single leather-bound folder stamped: CELESTE LAURENT — CONFIDENTIAL.

Aria carried the file to the desk and switched on the dim brass reading lamp.

The records began seven years ago with an official engagement press release. Celeste Laurent, twenty-four. Damien Blackthorne, twenty-nine. The match was described as a grand union of legacy and vision.

Someone—Damien, judging by the sharp, decisive slant of his handwriting—had drawn a dark line through union and written acquisition.

The subsequent pages meticulously tracked Celeste’s daily schedule, bank accounts, personal correspondence, and travel routes. Aria recognized the rigorous structure immediately as Damien’s.

Celeste’s file was noticeably cold. There were no handwritten notes regarding how she preferred her coffee, no circled photos highlighting a genuine smile, and no personal observations disguised as security assessments.

Aria expected to feel relieved. Instead, the stark difference unsettled her deeply.

Damien had merely investigated Celeste. He had studied Aria.

Near the back of the file, Aria discovered a typed transcript of an intercepted conversation:

CELESTE: You do not love me, Damien.

DAMIEN: Love was never part of our agreement.

CELESTE: Then why do you care where I go or who I see?