The Envelope
Morning light spilled through the tall windows, painting golden streaks across the floor and tangled bedsheets.
Muri blinked awake slowly.
Lex was still asleep beside her—his face peaceful for once, free of armor, shadows, or grief. His arm rested across her waist like he never wanted to let go.
But reality had sharp edges.
Her body ached with the echo of the night they'd shared, but her mind was already racing.
What now?
She slipped from the bed quietly, grabbing his shirt off the floor and pulling it over her body. As she stepped into the hallway, the faintest sound pulled her attention to the front door—a gentle rustle. A soft click.
She frowned.
Padding toward it barefoot, she opened the door to find nothing… except a cream envelope lying neatly on the floor, sealed with gold wax.
No stamp. No name.
Just a handwritten word on the front:
"Muri."
Her pulse spiked. She closed the door and opened the envelope slowly.
Inside was a letter—neatly folded—and a photograph.
She unfolded the letter first.
> Muri,
There are things Lex doesn't know. Things I have kept buried to protect this family. But now, with what you've remembered… it's time.
Lex's father didn't just try to erase you. He did it to protect something hidden in the company. Something only you had access to—something even Lex doesn't know exists.
Come to the Cartwright estate tonight. Alone.
—Eleanor Cartwright
Muri's hands trembled as she looked at the photograph.
It was old. Faded.
A teenage Muri.
Sitting beside Micah.
And behind them?
Lex's father.
Smiling.