The morning sun filtered through the lace curtains of the Sinclair mansion, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the still air. Aurora sat cross-legged on the worn Persian rug in the parlor, surrounded by Evelyn's journals. The first journal had been gripping enough, but now, with a steaming cup of coffee by her side and a quiet house to herself, she was ready to dive deeper into her grandmother's story.
Opening the second journal, she skimmed the delicate handwriting, pausing at an entry that sent a shiver down her spine.
"August 2, 1954. James left for the sea again today. Each time he goes, I fear he might not return. His letters sustain me, but they are no substitute for his presence. Father disapproves of him—he says James is a dreamer and not fit for someone of my standing. But how can I ignore the way he makes me feel? He sees me for who I truly am, not as the Sinclair heiress but as Evelyn, a woman longing for freedom."
Aurora traced the words with her finger, a lump forming in her throat. The more she read, the more Evelyn's life felt like a mirror to her own. They both had a yearning for something deeper, something beyond what the world expected of them. But Aurora had spent years burying that yearning, focusing instead on her career and pushing away anything—or anyone—that felt too personal.
The sound of a vehicle crunching over gravel interrupted her thoughts. Setting the journal aside, Aurora rose and peeked through the front window. Elliot Grayson's truck was parked in the driveway, and the man himself was stepping out, clipboard in hand. His presence felt like an intrusion, though she had to admit, she was curious to see what he'd come up with for the renovation plans.
She opened the door just as he approached, the wind tousling his dark hair. "You're early," she said, folding her arms.
"Is that a problem?" Elliot asked, one brow arching slightly.
Aurora sighed, stepping aside to let him in. "No, just unexpected."
As he walked past her, she caught a whiff of his cologne—a mix of cedar and something clean, like fresh linen. It was a small detail, but one that lingered in her mind as she followed him into the foyer.
Elliot spread a set of blueprints across the dining table, his movements efficient and precise. Aurora leaned over to get a closer look, her eyes scanning the detailed sketches.
"These are preliminary plans," Elliot began, pointing to various sections of the house. "The roof needs immediate attention, as does the wiring. I've also included options for modernizing the kitchen and bathrooms without compromising the original aesthetic."
Aurora frowned, tracing a finger along one of the sketches. "What about the ballroom?"
Elliot blinked. "The ballroom?"
"Yes," Aurora said, her voice firm. "It's one of the most beautiful parts of the house. My grandmother hosted countless parties there. I want it restored to its former glory."
Elliot studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. But that will take time—and money."
"I'm aware," Aurora said, meeting his gaze. "Can you do it?"
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."
For a brief moment, their eyes locked, and Aurora felt a flicker of something she couldn't quite place. She quickly looked away, clearing her throat. "Good. Let me know if you need anything."
"I will," Elliot said, rolling up the blueprints. "And while we're on the subject, I'd like to start with the attic. It'll need to be cleared out before we can assess the structural integrity."
Aurora's stomach tightened. The attic was where Evelyn's journals were stored, along with countless other relics of the past. She wasn't ready to part with any of it.
"I'll handle the attic," she said quickly.
Elliot raised a brow. "You sure? It's a lot of work."
"I'm sure," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
He shrugged, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push the issue. "Suit yourself. I'll be back tomorrow to start on the roof."
As Elliot left, Aurora exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The man had a way of getting under her skin, and she wasn't sure if it was his bluntness or the fact that he seemed to see through her defenses.
Shaking off the thought, she returned to the parlor and picked up Evelyn's journal. There were still so many unanswered questions, and Aurora was determined to uncover the truth—about James, about her grandmother's forbidden romance, and about the legacy of the Sinclair family.
---
Hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aurora found herself in the attic again. Armed with a flashlight and a sense of purpose, she sifted through boxes and trunks, her fingers brushing against faded photographs, antique jewelry, and letters tied with twine. Each item felt like a piece of a puzzle she was only beginning to assemble.
One trunk in particular caught her attention. It was larger than the others, its leather exterior worn and scuffed. The lock had rusted over, but with a bit of effort, Aurora managed to pry it open.
Inside, she found a collection of objects that took her breath away: a sailor's cap, a brass compass, and a bundle of letters addressed to Evelyn Sinclair. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the signature at the bottom of each letter was not.
James.
Aurora's hands trembled as she unfolded the first letter. The words were raw and heartfelt, filled with longing and promises of a future together.
"My dearest Evelyn,
The sea is vast, but my thoughts are always with you. Each wave that crashes against the bow carries my love, and each star that lights the night sky is a reminder of the dreams we share. I count the days until I can hold you again. Until then, know that you are my anchor, my safe harbor in the storm."
Aurora's vision blurred with tears. The love James had for Evelyn was palpable, almost overwhelming. It made her ache for something she didn't even realize she wanted—a connection that transcended time and distance, a love that felt like home.
Lost in the letters, she barely noticed the creak of the attic stairs until it was too late.
"Aurora?"
She jumped, spinning around to find Elliot standing at the top of the staircase. His eyes flicked to the trunk, then to the letters in her hand.
"Sorry," he said, holding up his hands. "I knocked, but you didn't answer. Thought I'd make sure you were okay."
Aurora wiped at her eyes quickly, embarrassed to be caught in such an unguarded moment. "I'm fine," she said, her voice tight.
Elliot stepped closer, his expression softening as he took in the scene. "What's all this?"
"Nothing," Aurora said quickly, closing the trunk. "Just… family stuff."
He didn't press her, but the look in his eyes told her he wasn't convinced. "If you need help, let me know."
"I don't need help," she said, more sharply than she intended.
Elliot nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll see myself out."
As he descended the stairs, Aurora let out a shaky breath. She hadn't meant to push him away, but the truth was, she wasn't ready to share this part of herself—not with him, not with anyone.
Turning back to the trunk, she picked up another letter and began to read, the shadows of the past weaving their way into her heart.