Chapter Thirty-Two
Monday morning, with the tide turning and shadows thick on the wharf, the records whispered what no one would say aloud.
Mary-Ann sat at her desk, the lamplight trembling over the cloth-bound booklet. She hadn’t meant to linger over it, but her thumb had found the smudge near the margin, a dark streak cutting through the number eight. And just like that, she remembered.
You always missed the eights… She heard his voice. Hamish. Ink on your nose, little miss.
Her breath caught, and then released all at once, as certainty lit behind her eyes.
“Hamish,” she whispered, a laugh breaking through the wetness in her throat. “You clever, clever man. It wasn’t a farewell. Not a comfort. It was a breadcrumb.”
The old warehouse. Not the one everyone used. The other one behind the ropeworks where they’d played when she was small, while her father spoke to the dockworkers. Where he taught her her first figures. Where he’d tucked sweets behind tally books and smiled every time she found them.
She rose, the chair legs whispering across the floor. Her heart beat fast, not with fear, but with purpose.
“Thank you,” she said aloud, voice catching.
She crossed the room, pulling open the drawer where her gloves and scarf waited. No cloak. She needed her hands free.
The house was still. The morning air tasted of salt and promise.
And for the first time in days, she felt alive.
Downstairs, she paused only to retrieve the lantern from the side cupboard, the one she’d used on evening rounds with her father as a girl.
She lifted it from its hook near the kitchen hearth and slid the cover to the side.
The flame, still burning low, brightened just enough to light her way.
Outside, the wind had stilled. The streets were empty as she walked, slipping through back lanes and narrow alleys toward the old warehouse near the water. It had once been part of the Seaton holdings, decommissioned years ago, too remote and too weather-worn for regular use. And yet…
Mary-Ann slipped the ring of keys from her pocket, the brass cool and familiar.
Her fingers paused on the worn leather strap.
She remembered the day her father handed her the keys, his pride, her solemn promise.
She hadn’t known then just how much that promise would demand.
The lock gave with a groan. The door swung inward. She stepped inside.
Dust and cold greeted her like old memories. The air inside the warehouse was thick with the scent of salt, oil, and wood long left to rot. Mary-Ann held the lantern higher, its glow pushing back the shadows only a few feet in each direction.
Crates lined the walls. Some were empty, and some were marked with dates that didn’t match any recent ledgers. She stepped carefully, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous stillness.
One stack near the back caught her eye. It bore the Seaton Shipping seal, but an older version, retired years ago. The wax was brittle, the wood warped. As she knelt to examine it, her hand brushed something wedged between the crate and the wall.
A folio. Leather-bound, weathered, sealed with a red ribbon now fraying at the edges. There was no label on the outside, only a faint impression of SS Seaton Shipping, pressed in gold leaf and nearly worn away.
Her breath caught. She opened it. She turned another page, careful with the frayed ribbon, and something fluttered loose—no ledger, no receipt, just a small, folded note. Her breath caught.
It was Hamish’s handwriting. Familiar. Steady.
I knew you would find this. Keep it safe. — H.
Her throat tightened, and for a single, aching moment, everything in her stilled. “Thank you,” she whispered, and tucked the note gently back inside.
She turned the next page and found page after page of meticulous records, including ship names, arrival dates, and aliases.
Notes in shorthand and ink-smudged sketches of symbols, ravens, ciphers, and foreign ports.
A different ledger was tucked within manifest entries tied to Seaton vessels but routed through false ports.
Half the names had been removed from Seaton’s official books.
And then, in the center, tucked between two thicker sheets, a page of diagrams.
Not cargo. Not routes. People.
Mary-Ann’s hand trembled as she lifted it. It was a personnel chart, neat and chilling. One name stood at the top. Rodney Wilkinson.
Lines stretched out from his name. Some to merchant houses, others to warehouse supervisors. But at the base was a box that made her blood run cold.
Mary-Ann Seaton.
Beside it: Contract pending. Consolidation of Seaton Shipping is imminent.
Her knees nearly gave out. She steadied herself on the crate.
The warehouse tilted slightly, or maybe it was her knees.
Her future, her family, her love, all reduced to ink on a page.
Her name, written not as a daughter, not as an heiress, but as an acquisition.
A line on a chart. A means to power. They hadn’t just used her company. They had tried to use her.
This wasn’t business. It wasn’t smuggling. It was a takeover. A quiet, calculated invasion of her father’s company. And Quinton—
Her heart stuttered.
Quinton’s name wasn’t on the page at all. Because he wasn’t meant to be part of their future, he’d been erased.
Beneath the chart, tucked behind a slip of blotting paper, was a report. No heading. No signature. Just a chilling summary in clean, decisive hand:
Interference removed. Operation successful. Hollingsworth detained as intended. Seaton interest remains vulnerable, consolidation imminent. Wilkinson’s position secured with minimal resistance.
Her vision blurred. She read the words again, barely able to breathe. They hadn’t just wanted to ruin the company. They’d orchestrated Quinton’s capture, not as the cost of war, but as its strategy. A calculated removal. He hadn’t been collateral. He had been the first move.
Mary-Ann stood slowly, clutching the folio to her chest. The leather was cold, the scent of oil and aged parchment rising as she tightened her grip. She hadn’t even heard the door open before he was between them.
And behind her, a voice said, low and smug, “I was hoping you’d come here.”
*
Mary-Ann turned, the lantern trembling in her grip.
Rodney stepped from the shadows near the door, his boots quiet on the rotting floorboards. His coat was immaculate, his smile anything but. “It’s unfortunate, really,” he said, glancing at the folio in her hands. “You always were cleverer than you let on.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the leather. “You knew I’d come.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. You were born with too much curiosity—and too much pride.” His eyes dropped to the documents. “You should hand those over now. They weren’t meant for you.”
“No,” she said, her voice cold. “They were meant to destroy everything I love.”
Rodney sighed, as if she’d disappointed him. “You don’t understand what you’ve wandered into. You think this is about your father’s company? About me?” He took a step closer. “This is bigger than all of us. It always has been.”
“Then why hide it?” she said, lifting the folio slightly. “Why erase Quinton? Why fake ledgers and forge alliances and send a man to die?”
That wiped the smugness from his face. For a moment. Then he moved. Fast.
He lunged across the space between them, grabbing for the folio. Mary-Ann twisted away, but he caught her wrist, yanking her backward hard enough to send her shoulder into the crates. The lantern fell, rolling away with a metallic clatter.
“Give it to me,” he hissed.
She shoved him with her free hand. “You’ll never lay a hand on another Seaton ledger again.”
He lunged toward her, fury flashing hot in his eyes. She stepped back, stumbling as her heel caught on a crate and sent her off balance. She hit the floor hard, her palm scraping against the wood. The folio skidded out of reach, landing several feet away.
Rodney bent for it. And was wrenched backward with such force he barely made a sound before crashing into the crates.
Quinton. He stood between them now, breathing hard, his fists clenched.
Rodney staggered upright, blood on his lip. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns me,” Quinton said darkly, “more than you’ll ever comprehend.”
Rodney lunged again, but Quinton met him head-on this time, his blows brutal, fast, and unrelenting.
The fight was nothing polished or strategic, just fury and fists, and three years of silence turned into motion.
Crates splintered, dust choked the air, and Mary-Ann scrambled for the folio, cradling it to her chest as the men crashed against the far wall.
Rodney struck low. Quinton caught his elbow, turned, and drove him back again. It ended in seconds with Rodney groaning, pinned beneath Quinton’s knee, his arm twisted behind him.
“You’re done,” Quinton said, breathing hard. “You won’t touch her. Not this company. Not a single thing bearing the Seaton name.”
The warehouse door opened sharply.
Barrington stood in the entrance, flanked by two men. His eyes swept the room in a moment and found Rodney on the floor, Quinton standing over him, Mary-Ann clutching the folio in the far shadows.
“We’ll take him,” Barrington said.
Quinton stepped back without a word. The other men moved in, hauling Rodney to his feet. He didn’t fight now, he just laughed, low and bitter, wiping blood from his mouth.
As they pulled him past, he looked at Quinton and muttered, “You should’ve stayed gone.”
Quinton didn’t move. “And you should’ve known better than to underestimate her, especially a woman who keeps records.”
Mary-Ann stepped next to Quinton and said, “Records that list every lie, every payment, and yes, even every name.”
Rodney’s smirk faltered.
Barrington met Mary-Ann’s gaze and gave a single, respectful nod. “Well done.”
Then they were gone. The echo of their steps faded, but the gravity of what had passed lingered, sharp, irrevocable, and finally hers to hold.
*
Silence returned like a tide.
The warehouse seemed larger without Rodney’s presence, the air colder now that the immediate danger had passed. Mary-Ann stood where she was, the folio still pressed to her chest, her hands aching from the force of her grip.
Quinton turned toward her slowly. His knuckles were scraped raw. A cut bled along his temple. But his eyes, his eyes were only on her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low.
She shook her head. “You came.”
“I had to.”
Her lips trembled, but she said nothing.
He took a cautious step closer. “I didn’t know. About the Order. About the plans. I thought… I thought I was a casualty of war. But I wasn’t, was I?”
Mary-Ann released a shaky breath and offered him the folio. “They planned it. Your capture. Everything. To get you out of the way. So Rodney could take over. So I would—”
She couldn’t finish.
Quinton didn’t look away as he took the folio. He opened to the chart, then the report. His shoulders stiffened as he read.
“They erased me,” he murmured. His hands shook. Three years lost. And all of it planned. “Like I was never meant to return.”
She looked at him then, truly looked. “That’s what they do.”
He closed the folio with care. “They wanted to rewrite your future. They didn’t count on you rewriting it back.”
Mary-Ann blinked. “You believed in me once. Then you stopped.”
“I didn’t stop.” His voice caught. “I buried it. Because I thought it was the only way to protect you. But I was wrong.”
She waited.
Quinton stepped forward again, slow and sure. “I’ll never ask you to stand aside. Or to be silent. If we do this, if we face what’s left, it will be together. On your terms.”
Her throat burned.
He reached for her hand, gently. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. But if you still want me—”
“I do,” she whispered.
He nodded once. “Then I’m yours. No more lies. No more orders. Just us.”
She didn’t speak. But this time, she didn’t let go of his hand.
She thought of every time she’d waited for him, every silence she’d endured. This wasn’t the reunion she’d once imagined. But it was honest. It was hers. And she wasn’t letting go.