The Lie Within

# Chapter 5: The Lie Within

The photograph sat between them like a loaded weapon.

Evelyn had laid it flat on the kitchen island, her hand still trembling from the effort of keeping her voice steady when she'd called Damon inside. Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the edges of the glossy paper and illuminating the image with cruel clarity.

Her father's face. Her uncle's arm around his shoulder. And in the background, half-hidden in shadow, the unmistakable silhouette of a Blackwood crest.

Damon's eyes moved across the photograph with the calculated precision of a man reading a battlefield map. He didn't flinch. Didn't reach for it. Simply stood on the other side of the marble counter, arms loose at his sides, his expression unreadable.

"Where did you find this?" His voice was calm. Too calm.

"It was in my father's study. Behind a painting I was restoring." Evelyn's throat felt raw, as if she'd been screaming, though she hadn't raised her voice. "You want to explain why the Blackwood family crest is in a photograph with my father, taken six months before he died?"

Damon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I can't explain what I don't know."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than she intended. "Don't lie to me. Not now."

He held her gaze for a long moment. The kitchen felt too small, the space between them charged with something electric and dangerous. Outside, the city hummed with its usual morning rhythm, oblivious to the war being waged in this penthouse.

"I told you my family handles security," Damon said finally, his voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate. "Your father was considering hiring us. That photograph was taken at a charity gala where the initial meeting occurred."

Evelyn's fingers pressed into the counter's edge until her knuckles went white. "My father hated the Blackwood family. He told me once that your name was synonymous with everything corrupt in this city."

"Your father was a smart man." Damon's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "He had every reason to be cautious. But caution and business aren't always compatible."

"What business?"

He spread his hands, the gesture deceptively open. "Your family's shipping company was struggling. Your father needed protection for certain... sensitive shipments. My family provides that kind of protection."

"Sensitive shipments." Evelyn laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"I'm telling you the truth."

"You're telling me a version of the truth." She pushed off from the counter, pacing the length of the kitchen. Her reflection slid across the polished steel appliances, a ghost trailing behind her. "The version that makes you look like a legitimate businessman instead of what you actually are."

"And what am I, Evelyn?"

She stopped. Turned to face him. "I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."

Something flickered in his eyes—respect, maybe, or warning. "Be careful what you dig for. Some graves are meant to stay closed."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a concern." He moved around the island, closing the distance between them. She held her ground, refusing to step back even as his presence filled her space, warm and overwhelming. "Your father came to us because he was afraid. Someone was already moving against him. The Blackwood family was supposed to be his insurance policy."

"What happened?"

"The insurance didn't pay out." His voice hardened. "Someone got to my father first. Made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

"Victor."

Damon's silence was confirmation enough.

Evelyn's mind raced, pieces clicking into place with sickening precision. Her uncle had always been there, always hovering at the edges of their lives with his careful smiles and calculated kindness. She'd been twelve when her father started pulling away from family gatherings, when the phone calls became hushed and the doors locked. She'd thought it was business stress. She'd never imagined—

"The photograph," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're in it."

Damon's expression went still.

"Not your face," she continued, "but you're there. In the background. I can see your silhouette against the window." She pointed at the image without looking at it. "You were at that gala. You were watching."

"I was seventeen."

"Old enough to know what your family was doing."

"Old enough to be powerless to stop it." His hand came up, hovering near her face without quite touching. She could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek, a breath away. "I'm not the man my father was, Evelyn. And I'm not the boy who stood in the shadows while deals were made in blood."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm the man trying to protect you from the same fate."

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Evelyn wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe that this man who had watched her, guarded her, touched her with such careful reverence was something other than a wolf in sheep's clothing.

But the photograph was still there. And her father was still dead.

"Protection," she repeated, the word tasting like ash. "Is that what you call it when you follow me through the city? When you appear at every gallery opening, every coffee shop, every street corner I turn?"

"You noticed."

"Of course I noticed. I'm not stupid."

"No." His hand finally made contact, fingers brushing against her jaw with devastating gentleness. "You're not stupid. You're the most dangerous kind of woman—one who pays attention."

"Then answer me. Why are you really here?"

The doorbell rang.

Damon's hand dropped. The moment shattered like glass, sharp fragments of what might have been scattered across the kitchen floor. He stepped back, composure sliding back into place like a mask.

"That will be Sienna."

Evelyn blinked. "How do you know?"

"Because she's always early, and she always rings twice." He moved toward the door, leaving her standing alone with the photograph and the thousand questions burning in her chest. "I'll let her in."

---

Sienna swept into the apartment in a cloud of perfume and nervous energy, her arms laden with portfolios and a tablet balanced precariously under her chin.

"Sorry I'm early—the gallery showing got pushed up and I need your eyes on the new acquisitions before—" She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze darting between Evelyn and Damon with sharp assessment. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Evelyn said, at the same moment Damon said, "Yes."

Sienna's perfectly arched eyebrow rose. "Well. That's not ominous at all."

Evelyn crossed to the kitchen island, sliding the photograph into the pocket of her cardigan before Sienna could see it. "We were just discussing security arrangements."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Sienna set her things on the counter, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Damon, darling, would you mind giving us a moment? Girl talk."

Damon's gaze cut to Evelyn, a question in the depths of his dark eyes. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He retreated to the study, his footsteps measured, deliberate—a man who wanted it known that he was leaving by choice, not command.

The moment the door clicked shut, Sienna rounded on her.

"Spill. Now."

"There's nothing to spill."

"Evelyn." Sienna's voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "I've known you for eight years. You have your 'I'm about to do something stupid' face on."

"I don't have a face."

"You have several faces. This is the stupid one." Sienna grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the living room. "What happened? And don't tell me nothing, because I can feel the tension from here."

Evelyn sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. The photograph seemed to burn against her ribs, a secret she wasn't ready to share. Not yet. Not until she understood what it meant.

"I found something," she said carefully. "Something about my father's death."

Sienna's face paled. "Eve—"

"I don't know what it means yet. But Damon knows more than he's telling me."

"Of course he knows more than he's telling you. He's a Blackwood." Sienna sat beside her, her voice fierce. "Those people don't do anything without an angle. My mother used to say that the Blackwoods would sell their own grandmothers if the price was right."

"Your mother knew them?"

"Everyone in certain circles knew them." Sienna's expression flickered with something Evelyn couldn't identify. "They're not the kind of family you want to owe favors to."

"And yet my father was meeting with them."

Sienna went still. "What?"

"I found a photograph. My father, my uncle, and the Blackwood crest. Six months before the accident." Evelyn watched her friend's face carefully, looking for any sign of recognition. "Did you know?"

"Know? No. Of course not." Sienna shook her head, but there was a beat of hesitation before the words came. "Your father never mentioned them to me. But then, he wouldn't have. I was just the girl who helped you sneak out to gallery openings."

"Don't." Evelyn's voice cracked. "Don't lie to me too."

Sienna's eyes met hers, and for a moment, something raw passed between them. "I'm not lying. I swear. I don't know what your father was involved in. But I know that whatever it was, it got him killed." She reached out, taking Evelyn's hands in hers. "And I know that Damon Blackwood showing up at your door six months later isn't a coincidence."

"He says he's protecting me."

"From what?"

"I don't know yet." Evelyn pulled her hands free, standing. "But I'm going to find out."

"How?"

"I'm going to start with the Blackwood family records. Public ones, at least. See what connections I can find between them and my father's company."

"That's dangerous."

"Everything is dangerous, Sienna. I've been hiding for six months, waiting for the other shoe to drop." Evelyn's voice hardened. "I'm tired of waiting."

Sienna studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Then I'll help you."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." Sienna stood, brushing off her designer dress. "But you're my best friend, and if the Blackwoods think they can play games with your family, they're going to have to deal with both of us."

Before Evelyn could respond, the study door opened. Damon emerged, his phone in hand, his expression unreadable.

"Sienna. The gallery called. They need you back for a delivery confirmation."

Sienna's eyes narrowed. "How did you—"

"I have my sources."

"Eavesdropping, you mean."

"I prefer to call it information gathering." Damon's smile was cold. "You should go. Wouldn't want to keep important clients waiting."

Sienna held his gaze for a moment, a silent war of wills passing between them. Then she turned to Evelyn, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

"Call me later. And be careful." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't trust him."

She was gone before Evelyn could respond, the door clicking shut behind her with finality.

The apartment fell silent.

Damon stood by the window, his back to her, the city sprawling beneath him like a kingdom he didn't quite own. "She's right, you know."

"About what?"

"Not trusting me." He turned, and for just a moment, she saw something vulnerable in his expression. "I'm not a good man, Evelyn. I've done things that would make you sick. I've made deals with people who would kill you without a second thought."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm trying to be better." He crossed to her, stopping just short of touching. "Because when I look at you, I see something worth protecting. Something worth fighting for."

"Pretty words."

"They're not words. They're a confession." His hand rose, fingers brushing against the curve of her jaw. "I've been watching you since before your father died. Not because I was ordered to. Because I couldn't stop."

Evelyn's breath caught. "That's not comforting."

"I know." His thumb traced along her cheekbone, featherlight. "But it's the truth. The only truth I can give you right now."

She should pull away. Should step back and put distance between them. Every instinct screamed that this man was dangerous, that getting close to him would only lead to more pain.

But she didn't move.

"Then tell me one more truth," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. "Tell me what really happened to my father."

Damon's hand stilled. His eyes searched hers, weighing something she couldn't name.

"Your father was killed because he found out something he shouldn't have." His voice was barely a whisper. "Something about the Blackwood family. Something about Victor. Something that would have destroyed them both."

"What did he find?"

"I don't know. But I'm trying to find out." His hand dropped to his side. "And when I do, I'll tell you. I swear it."

"Promises from a Blackwood."

"This one's from Damon." He stepped back, creating space between them. "I have to go. There's a meeting I can't miss."

"Another meeting about 'security'?"

"Something like that." He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. "Stay inside tonight. Don't answer the door for anyone you don't know."

"Anyone except you?"

His smile was grim. "Anyone except me."

He left, and the apartment felt suddenly empty, the silence pressing in on her from all sides.

Evelyn stood alone in the center of the living room, the photograph heavy in her pocket, Damon's words echoing in her mind. She should listen to him. Should stay safe, stay hidden, let him handle whatever darkness was closing in.

But she had never been good at listening.

She pulled out her phone, fingers moving quickly across the screen. A search for "Blackwood family holdings." A search for "Cross shipping merger 2019." A search for "Victor Mercer business partners."

The results were sparse. Controlled. The Blackwood family had scrubbed their digital presence clean, leaving only the barest traces of their existence.

But they hadn't scrubbed everything.

Evelyn scrolled through archived news articles, public records, property deeds. The Blackwood name appeared in unexpected places—a shipping subsidiary in Hong Kong, a security firm in London, a gallery in Paris that had once hosted a charity event for the Cross family.

And there, buried in the footnotes of a financial report from 2018, was a name that made her blood run cold.

*Blackwood & Cross Holdings. Established 1987. Dissolved 2019.*

Her father had been in business with them. Not just meeting with them. *In business.*

For thirty-two years.

Evelyn's hands were shaking as she clicked through to the dissolution documents. The pages were scanned, faded, but legible. She read through the legal jargon, the signatures, the dates.

And then she found it.

A clause buried in the fine print, so innocuous it would have been overlooked by anyone who wasn't looking for it.

*In the event of the death of a primary stakeholder, all assets and liabilities shall transfer to the remaining partner.*

Her father had died. And his share of the company—his entire share—had transferred to the Blackwood family.

No. Not the family.

To Damon.

She stared at the screen, the world tilting around her. He hadn't been protecting her. He'd been *watching* her. Making sure she didn't find out what he'd taken.

The photograph. The security. The careful, calculated kindness.

All of it was a lie.

Evelyn closed the phone, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The apartment felt like a cage, every shadow hiding a threat, every corner holding a secret.

She needed to get out. Needed to think. Needed to find the truth before Damon came back and sealed her in this gilded prison for good.

She grabbed her coat, her keys, her phone. And for the first time in six months, she stepped out into the city not as a woman hiding from her past, but as a woman hunting for the truth.

The night swallowed her whole.

And somewhere in the darkness, the Blackwood name waited, patient and hungry, ready to claim another Cross.