Chapter 3 - Fire in the VaultFlames danced along the ancient wooden paneling of the sub-basement corridor as Diego and Clara sprinted down the spiral stone staircase, their footsteps echoing against the damp walls. The automated fire suppression system had failed—its electronic control lines had been neatly severed with industrial wire cutters.
"Stay back!" Diego ordered, throwing his heavy trench coat over his face as he lunged forward against the heat of the double steel doors of the main archive vault.
The digital keypad had been smashed, fused into a useless block of melted plastic and sparks. But the manual override wheel—a heavy iron valve installed during the Cold War—remained operable. With a grunt of pure adrenaline, Diego jammed his hands onto the wheel and threw his entire body weight into it.
Clang-hiss.
The heavy seal broke, releasing a rush of superheated air and choking gray smoke. Diego coughed violently, pulling Clara back behind him before charging into the blinding inferno.
Rows of steel filing cabinets stood like burning pillars. Old parchment contracts, medical affidavits, and bank ledger sheets floated in the superheated updraft like glowing embers. But it wasn't the fire that caught Diego’s attention—it was a shadow moving near the far back corner of the vault, frantically feeding paper documents into a portable industrial incinerator.
"Stop right there!" Diego shouted, cutting through the smoke.
The figure in a dark servant’s uniform froze. Slowly, the person turned around. It was Mrs. Gable, the estate’s long-serving archivist, her face smeared with soot, her eyes wild with a manic, desperate panic.
"You shouldn't be down here, Master Diego," Mrs. Gable wheezed, clutching a final thick manila folder labeled PROJECT HEIR - 2017. "The past is dead. If Madam Eleanor finds out these papers survived, everything—everything the family built—will crumble into ash!"
"Hand me the folder, Gable," Diego commanded, taking a slow, measured step forward, his hand outstretched. "Now."
"No!" Mrs. Gable screamed. With a sudden burst of frantic energy, she threw the heavy manila folder directly into the roaring belly of the incinerator and slammed the heavy iron door shut.
Diego lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar of her uniform and shoving her hard against a cool stone pillar away from the flames. Clara didn't hesitate; she grabbed a heavy wool fire blanket off the wall safety station, threw it over the open intake valve of the incinerator, and smothered the oxygen supply, choking out the flames before they could completely consume the contents inside.
Using thick leather work gloves he grabbed from a maintenance cart, Diego threw open the incinerator door and reached inside. He pulled out the smoking manila folder. The edges were charred, blackened, and brittle, but the center pages—protected by heavy cardstock dividers—remained intact.
He flicked open the scorched cover.
Inside was a single, laminated birth certificate, a series of hospital transfer logs, and a Polaroid photograph that made his heart stop completely.
It was a picture of a newborn baby wrapped in a hospital blanket stamped with the Blackwood crest. But written across the bottom in Eleanor’s sharp, unmistakable cursive handwriting were words that shattered the final illusion of his family’s honor:
First twin secured for the primary lineage. Second twin successfully transferred to the secondary facility per agreement with the external trustee. Do not let Diego discover the duplication.
Diego stared at the paper, his breath hitching in his throat.
May you like
Twins.
Valentina didn't just have a stolen past. She had a sister. And someone had spent nine years hiding the second child in plain sight.
