Scars of the Falkner Crown

The private study on the third floor of the Falkner mansion was a fortress of leather, dark mahogany, and towering bookshelves. The door clicked shut behind them with a heavy, soundproof thud, cutting off the faint murmurs of the panicked guests downstairs.

Adrian stood by the large stone fireplace, staring into the empty grate before turning back to face Helena, who remained standing near the door, clutching his oversized suit jacket around her shoulders like armor.

“You don't remember me, do you?” Adrian asked quietly, leaning his hands against the edge of the heavy oak desk.

Helena frowned, crossing her arms defensively. “I’ve never set foot in this estate before tonight, Mr. Falkner. I work for Silver Spoon Catering. We cater events for people who prefer not to look at the people serving them.”

“Twenty-one years ago,” Adrian said, ignoring her sarcasm. “The Clearwater River. A pleasure boat caught fire and went down in the midnight storm. A boy trapped beneath a steel bulkhead. A girl with thin arms and a stubborn streak who wouldn't let go until he was safe on the bank.”

Helena’s breath hitched. The room seemed to tilt slightly.

That night was a nightmare she had buried deep in her subconscious—a night of smoke, screaming, and searing, skin-melting agony when a fallen beam had branded her back while she pulled a terrified child from the wreckage. She had never told a single soul about it, not even her foster mother, believing it was just a fever dream born of trauma.

“How... how could you possibly know about that?” Helena whispered, her voice cracking for the first time.

Adrian walked slowly toward her, stopping just a few feet away. He reached up, his fingers trembling slightly as he hovered near her shoulder, hesitant to touch her without permission.