Page 37 of No Longer Mine (Rags & Riches #2)

Chapter Thirty-One

Dimitri

I tightened my grip on the glass in my hand, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as I stared at the city skyline beyond my office window. Two weeks. Two weeks since she’d stood in my bedroom, her eyes flashing with defiance, her body pressed against mine like she was daring me to break her.

And I’d let her go.

Like an idiot.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders to release the tension coiled there. She hadn’t stolen from me that night, at least not anything of mine. The flash drive—whatever was on it—had nothing to do with me.

And yet… I couldn’t shake this feeling deep in my chest that I needed to know what was on it.

I ran a hand down my face, frustration coiling tighter in my gut. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was instinct. That goddamn flash drive was important.

I’d felt her body stiffen against mine the second that thing hit the floor. I’d seen the flicker of genuine panic in her eyes before she bolted like the devil himself was at her heels. And that was what bothered me most.

I needed to know more about Scarlett Montrose, but how could I do that with everything on her wiped?

I picked up my phone and dialed Benson. He answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“I need to know more about Scarlett Montrose.”

I could practically hear him grinning. “I thought you would never ask.”

“She’s been spotted with a few people in the last few years. The girl I can’t get an ID on, but the guy? Oliver Christenson.”

I straightened in my chair. “And?”

“It’s funny. Everyone around her doesn’t have a life before they were eighteen, but him?

He goes all the way to his birth. His family was old money.

When they died in a fire, he was sent to live at Vanewood Manor.

An elitist orphanage in upstate New York.

Only the gifted were invited to be a part of it.

When the owner, Mr. Vanewood himself, and his son were mysteriously stabbed to death, Oliver gave a statement to the police, and then he disappeared.

He’s only ever been seen in public with Ms. Montrose. ”

Vanewood Manor.

That name sent a sharp pulse of recognition through me, but I couldn’t place it. I pulled my laptop closer, fingers tapping rapidly as I searched for anything on the orphanage.

It had been shut down over a decade ago.

Vanewood had been for the elite—or so the official records claimed. Only the brightest, most talented, and most promising children were accepted. A school for prodigies. A haven for the gifted.

But gifted could mean a lot of things.

“Tell me more about Vanewood,” I said, still scrolling.

Benson hummed on the other end. “Not much available on public record, but from what I can gather, the place was fucked. They churned out business moguls, politicians, prodigies, but I’d bet my left nut half of them were emotionally stunted sociopaths.”

I exhaled through my nose. “And the murders?”

“Vanewood and his son were found dead in the estate,” Benson continued, his tone even, measured. “No forced entry. No security footage.”

“How do you think Scarlett and Oliver met?” I asked.

“That’s an interesting question considering he never goes in public and is never seen with anyone but her.”

“See if you can find any pictures taken at Vanewood Manor. There has to be something. A class album. I don’t know. I want to know who was there when the Vanewoods were killed. I want more than a thin statement from a child.”

“That’s the thing,” Benson said. “Oliver wasn’t a child. He was, uh, seventeen.”

My pulse ticked up.

“How old was she?” I asked, already knowing the answer would piss me off.

Benson hesitated. “Hard to say. Like I told you, she doesn’t exist before she turned eighteen.”

I gritted my teeth.

That didn’t just happen. You don’t just erase someone’s past. Not unless you had a very good reason.

Not unless you were hiding something big.

I inhaled sharply, leaning back in my chair. “Find me anything—I don’t care how buried it is. I want to know who was at Vanewood. Where the money they had went and why the fuck there’s no record of Scarlett before she became an adult.”

Benson let out a low whistle. “You know, for someone who let her walk away, you sure seem obsessed.”

I pressed my fingers against my temples. “Just do it.”

Scarlett Montrose had walked into my life as a thief. But the more I dug, the more I realized—that was the least interesting thing about her.

I leaned back in my chair, tapping a pen against my desk as I considered my options. Vanewood Manor.

If Benson had hit a dead end, that meant someone, somewhere, wanted it buried.

And if someone wanted it buried, that meant there was something worth finding.

I exhaled through my nose, tossing the pen onto the desk. My schedule was already packed—meetings, hearings, and backdoor negotiations that kept the city running in my favor—but this was different.

This wasn’t about politics. This was about her.

I grabbed my jacket, shrugging into it as I reached for my phone. Benson picked up on the second ring. “Please tell me you’re calling because you want to get drinks and not because you’re about to do something reckless.”

“I’m going to Vanewood.”

Silence.

Then—“You’re a fucking idiot.”

I smirked. “That’s not news.”

Benson sighed. “You do realize the place has been abandoned for years, right? It’s a rotting husk of a building. No electricity, no security—just a shitload of bad history and probably a colony of rats.”

“Then it shouldn’t be hard for me to take a look around,” I said smoothly.

“I swear to God, you have other priorities, Dimitri. You’re running a fucking city and you’re chasing after some girl’s past?”

“She’s not just some girl.”

The words came out before I could stop them, before I could wrap them in the usual layers of cold, detached logic. Benson went quiet again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was different—lower, more serious. “What are you expecting to find?”

“I have no idea, but I need to figure it out. It’s been festering under my skin. If I don’t find anything there, great. But if I do? It might just tip the scales in my favor.”

He groaned into the phone. “At least bring Don with you. I know you’re resourceful, but this is just reckless.”

Don was waiting outside my office. I smiled at him as I hung up on Benson. Benson would be tracking me all the way there and back to make sure I made it out alive. “Are you ready for an adventure?”

Don raised his brows as he grabbed his coat and the keys to the SUV. “I’ve been wanting to get out of this goddamned city all week.”

The drive to Vanewood Manor was a slow and boring one. I thought visiting my parents’ estate in upstate New York was a snooze, this was even worse. The only upside was that it wasn’t as far as my parents’ home. I would be back before dinner.

I drummed my fingers against my knee as Don drove, the hum of the SUV the only sound between us. He hadn’t asked any questions—not yet. But I could feel his curiosity simmering, the occasional glance in the rearview mirror, the way his grip tightened on the wheel.

Finally, he sighed. “Alright. What’s the deal?”

I smirked, leaning my head back against the seat. “No deal. Just checking out a piece of history.”

Don snorted. “Bullshit. You don’t do nostalgia.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d spent my life looking forward, cutting through obstacles with precision and force. I didn’t waste time on things that didn’t serve me.

“This doesn’t have to do with the redhead, does it?”

I’d been very selective over what I told Don about her.

He’d seen me simmer in my rage toward her after I was sworn in when she was on the arm of that imbecile, Gavin Crenshaw.

He’d seen me obsess over who she could be weeks before that, though I never gave in and told him she’d broken into my home.

“Everything about Scarlett is wiped. I have a feeling that she and her friend Oliver Christenson both attended there, and the only way to get my answers is going to be beyond its crumbling doors.”

The midday sun cast sharp shadows across the overgrown driveway as we pulled up to Vanewood Manor.

The place was somehow even more unsettling in the light—its towering structure looming against the bright blue sky, vines clawing at the stone walls like they were trying to pull it back into the earth where it belonged.

Don let out a low whistle as he killed the engine. “Well. This is sufficiently creepy.”

I stepped out of the SUV, boots crunching against the gravel. The iron gates had rusted in place, standing open like an invitation—or a warning. The long, winding path up to the house was cracked with age, weeds growing in the fissures; nature was reclaiming what had been left behind.

“You sure this place isn’t condemned?” Don muttered, slamming the car door shut.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I murmured, taking in the structure. It was old money. The kind of place built to last, to house generations of the powerful and privileged. But now? It was a carcass of whatever it used to be.

I stepped forward, pushing past a rusted-out gate that hung from one hinge. A placard was mounted on a crumbling stone post—Vanewood Estate. The lettering was faded, chipped. I reached out, brushing my fingers over it.

I climbed the cracked front steps and pressed my hand against the door. The wood was warped, swollen from years of disrepair, but the handle turned easily.

I pushed it open. The smell hit me first.

Dust. Wood rot. Something else underneath it, something faded but sharp—like old memories trapped in the walls.

Don stepped in behind me, gaze sweeping over the foyer. “I hate this already.”

My eyes skimmed over the extensive drawing room and then just beyond the grand staircase to what looked like a common area.

The floors were warped and buckling, but that wasn’t what caught my eye.

It was the dust disturbed. Someone had walked through here recently.

I crouched down to the floor and ran my finger over one of the footprints. Recently.