Chapter 6 DAMON’S POV
I did not leave the engagement party until after midnight.
The estate had begun to empty. Luxury cars disappeared through the gates one after another. Somewhere in the distance, music still played softly.
None of it held my attention.
I stood near the terrace doors, watching Ivy Marchetti laugh politely at something an elderly investor said.
Julian stood beside her.
His hand rested at her waist. I had put his hand there. Every arrangement at this event had been mine. The flowers, the guest list, the positioning of the family for photographs. I had designed every detail.
I looked away but looked back again.
The locket.
The words.
The voice.
Every detail fits.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of searching who she was. And somehow she had ended up as Julian's fiancée.
Because I had arranged it.
The realization sat heavily in my chest.
"Damon?"
I turned.
Marcus stood nearby.
"The last guests are leaving."
I nodded.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"We should leave now."
I stood and took my keys from him.
"I need you to find everything on Ivy Marchetti."
He blinked.
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"We already ran a background investigation before the engagement."
"Run it again. Find out if she was at my mother's funeral."
Marcus studied my face.
Then he asked carefully, "Did something happen?"
I glanced toward the ballroom.
Ivy was gone.
"I saw someone."
Marcus stared at me.
Then he rubbed his forehead.
"I'll start tonight."
"Good."
I left immediately afterward and drove back to Manhattan alone.
The city was quiet.
Usually I enjoyed driving at night.
Tonight my thoughts would not settle.
I kept seeing the same image.
A small girl sitting beside me behind the chapel.
Offering me a handkerchief.
Telling me grief wasn't something shameful.
I reached my penthouse shortly after one in the morning.
I should have slept.
Instead, I poured a drink and walked into the study.
Then I opened the archive box. I had not opened it in years.
Inside were my mother’s possessions and photographs from her funeral.
Condolence cards. Newspaper clippings.
And one white handkerchief.
I picked it up carefully.
The fabric had aged but the embroidered edges were still intact.
I remembered every detail.
The way she'd pressed it into my hand.
The way she'd smiled.
I sat down.
For the next two hours I searched through photographs.
One after another. I searched every face.
Every corner. Every background.
Nothing.
I cursed quietly.
Then searched again.
At four in the morning my phone rang.
Marcus.
I answered immediately.
"What did you find?"
"I pulled the original guest records."
My grip tightened.
"And?"
"She was there."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"Ivy Marchetti attended the funeral."
My pulse accelerated.
"With who?"
"Carmine Marchetti."
Silence.
I stood and walked toward the windows.
"What else?"
"I'm still digging."
"Keep digging."
I ended the call.
Then I stared out at Manhattan until sunrise.
---
By eight o'clock I was already inside Blackwood Consolidated.
Marcus arrived carrying three folders.
He dropped them onto my desk.
Most of the information was familiar.
Birth records.
School records.
Financial reports.
University transcripts.
I already knew she was intelligent.
The records only confirmed it.
Top marks.
Strong evaluations.
Several professors recommending careers in finance.
"What am I missing?" I asked.
Marcus leaned back.
"Keep reading."
I turned another page.
Then stopped.
My eyes narrowed.
"What is this?"
"A gap."
I looked up.
Marcus nodded.
"Three years."
I examined the file again.
Certain childhood records were missing.
Several documents had been removed.
Others appeared altered.
"Why?"
"We don't know."
I frowned.
"People don't accidentally lose that much paperwork."
"Exactly."
For several seconds I studied the missing years.
Something felt wrong.
Not suspicious.
Deliberate.
Someone had gone to effort.
"Continue."
Marcus slid another photograph across the desk.
I looked down.
A woman smiled back at me.
Blonde hair.
Warm eyes.
Elegant posture.
I immediately recognized the resemblance.
"Ivy's mother?"
"Yes."
I picked up the photograph.
The similarity was unmistakable.
The eyes.
The shape of her face.
Even her smile.
"She died when Ivy was young?"
Marcus nodded.
"Car accident."
I stared at the image.
Something about it bothered me.
Something I couldn't identify.
Then Marcus spoke.
"I found something else."
I looked up.
"What?"
Without a word, he slid a large envelope onto my desk.
My pulse immediately quickened.
"What's inside?"
"I think you'll want to see it yourself."
I opened it.
Several photographs spilled onto the desk.
Funeral photographs.
My mother's funeral.
My chest tightened.
I grabbed the first picture.
Nothing.
Second picture.
Nothing.
I froze when I reached the third.
A little girl stood near the chapel entrance.
Blonde hair pinned neatly back.
Black dress.
Small hands folded together.
A gold locket rested against her throat.
My breathing stopped.
For a long moment the room disappeared.
I wasn't sitting in my office anymore.
I was nineteen.
Lost, Grieving.
And she was there.
The same girl. The same locket. The same face.
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
Marcus watched quietly.
I looked at several other photographs.
She appeared in most.
Wearing the locket. Standing beside Carmine.
Looking exactly as I remembered.
Ivy.
Fifteen years ago.
The realization settled heavily inside me.
For fifteen years I had searched for her.
And somehow I found her only after giving her away.
Marcus watched me carefully.
"Damon."
I finally looked up.
"What?"
"She's engaged."
"I know."
"To your brother."
"I know."
Marcus exhaled heavily.
"Then leave it alone."
Marcus was the only person alive who could say that to me without any consequences.
I didn't answer.
Because for the first time in years, I couldn't promise that.
My gaze returned to the photograph.
The small girl looked back at me from fifteen years ago.
The girl who had sat beside a grieving stranger and offered kindness without asking for anything in return.
The girl I never forgot.
The girl I had searched for in every city, every lead, every possibility.
The girl who was now standing beside the wrong man.
I stared at the picture for a long time.
Then quietly said the words that had been waiting fifteen years to be spoken.
"I've been looking for you."
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
"For fifteen years."
