Chapter 13 - The Secret in the FloorboardsNovember brought torrential rains that turned the Westport dirt roads into ribbons of thick, gray mud. Trapped inside the cottage by a howling nor'easter that knocked out the local power grid, the household had retreated to the living room, illuminated only by the flickering amber glow of a stone fireplace and a dozen beeswax candles.
While Grace and Sophie were fast asleep under a mountain of knitted quilts, and Miles was busy mapping out a blanket fortress designed to withstand hurricane-force winds, Nathaniel and Elena sat on the braided rug by the hearth.
Nathaniel was using an old pocketknife to whittle a small wooden bird for Sophie’s dollhouse, his movements practiced and rhythmic. Elena was sketching in her charcoal journal, the scratching of graphite the only sound besides the rain lashing against the windowpanes.
"Do you ever miss it?" Elena asked softly without looking up from her pad.
"Miss what?"
"Manhattan. The adrenaline. The feeling that you could snap your fingers and change the global economy."
Nathaniel paused his knife. He looked down at his hands—calloused now from chopping firewood and building dollhouse furniture, no longer pristine and manicured for boardroom handshakes.
"I spent my entire twenties believing that if I built a high enough wall around myself, nothing could touch me," Nathaniel said quietly. "My father died when I was twenty-two, leaving me a collapsing empire and a mother who measured my worth in net margins. I thought control was the same thing as safety."
He set the wooden bird aside and reached out, gently placing his hand over Elena’s sketchbook. "I didn't miss Manhattan the day I walked out of that ballroom. And I certainly don't miss it now. My entire world is right here in this room."
Elena looked up, her hazel eyes shining in the candlelight. She reached out, her charcoal-stained fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You know, when your mother’s fixer came to my hospital bed five years ago, I thought I was the loneliest person on earth. I thought love was just a transaction—something rich people buy and poor people pay for with their dignity."
"I am so sorry, El," Nathaniel whispered, his voice thick with a raw, buried grief. "If I had known—"
"Shh," she pressed a finger against his lips. "If you had known, your mother would have destroyed you both. Everything happened the way it had to happen, Nathaniel. It made us who we are."
A sudden, sharp pop from beneath the floorboards interrupted them.
Nathaniel frowned, tapping the wide pine planks near the edge of the hearth with his knuckles. "That's odd. The subfloor sounds hollow right here."
Curiosity piqued, Nathaniel used the flat edge of his pocketknife to pry loose an old, rusted iron nail securing one of the wide floorboards. With a slight groan of aged timber, the plank lifted away, revealing a dark, dust-filled cavity beneath the floor.
Elena leaned in, holding a candle closer. "What is that?"
Reaching into the dark recess, Nathaniel’s fingers brushed against something cold and leather-bound. He pulled it out into the firelight. It was a heavy, leather-bound journal with the initials J.C. embossed in faded gold leaf on the cover.
"My father's initials," Nathaniel breathed, staring at the book in stunned disbelief. "Jonathan Cross. He died in his study twenty-five years ago. The official report said heart failure."
He opened the first brittle page. The handwriting was frantic, looping, utterly unlike the cold, precise cursive his father was known for.
May you like
December 14, 2001. If anyone is reading this, it means Celeste has finally finished what she started. She didn't kill my heart; she poisoned my tea. She wants total control of the Cross Holdings voting trust, and she knows I was going to rewrite the will to protect Nathaniel.
Nathaniel froze, the blood draining completely from his face. The candles flickered wildly as the wind howled outside, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cabin walls.
