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CHAPTER 3

L ate afternoon sun slanted through the stained-glass portions of The Red Lion’s front windows, casting shifting mosaics of amber and ruby across the timeworn floor. Tessa stood beside Detective Inspector Morris, watching as the forensic team carefully wrapped the pocket watch retrieved from the hidden chamber with the reverent care usually reserved for crown jewels or unexploded ordnance. The air held the scent of damp timber and centuries of absorbed history, with faint traces of last night’s ale drifting beneath the sharper bite of police disinfectant—a combination that somehow perfectly summarized her life at the moment.

“We’ll need to keep the cellar cordoned off until the archaeological team arrives,” Morris said, tapping his pen against his notebook with the rhythmic precision of a man who’d delivered bad news so often it had become a musical accompaniment. “Human remains on a property this old trigger specific protocols.”

Tessa nodded, working hard to mask her frustration behind a mask of professional understanding. Inside, she was calculating lost revenue, disappointed regulars, and the growing likelihood that Sebastian would use this delay to his advantage. “But the main floor?—”

“Still connected to an active investigation scene.” Morris’s tone softened slightly, as if he’d recognized the careful control in her voice. “Look, Ms. Lawson, I get that this is your livelihood. But we’re talking about someone who may have died under suspicious circumstances.”

“Potentially from a bombing raid during the Blitz,” Tessa countered, gesturing toward the lineup of evidence bags arranged along the bar like artifacts in a makeshift museum. “The clothing fragments, the watch marked 1939, the letter addressed to someone named Rebecca—it all points to the 1940s. This wasn’t a murder, Detective. This was a tragedy.”

Morris raised an eyebrow with the expression of a man who’d heard every possible theory at least twice. “Which makes it historically interesting, sure. But protocol still applies.”

Before Tessa could launch into what she privately called her ‘heritage preservation speech’—a passionate argument that had successfully swayed three different planning committees—a woman in white coveralls approached with a clipboard in hand. Dr. Fiona Winters, the forensic examiner who’d spent most of the morning cataloging items from the sealed chamber with the methodical patience of someone who understood that the dead deserved proper attention. Her previously severe expression had noticeably thawed after Tessa had shared her collection of wartime newspaper clippings and first-hand accounts.

“Preliminary assessment supports Ms. Lawson’s theory,” Dr. Winters said, passing the clipboard to Morris with a slight smile that suggested she was rather enjoying having her professional opinion backed up by solid historical evidence. “Male, roughly eighteen to twenty-five based on bone development. The watch dates from the late 1930s, and the fabric fragments match civilian clothing from the early 1940s.”

A slight tingle crept up the back of Tessa’s neck—that familiar sensation she’d learned to recognize as something beyond simple atmospheric pressure. Goosebumps chased across her arms though the air hadn’t grown any colder, and she had the distinct impression that someone was listening to this conversation with profound interest.

Somewhere beneath this pub, a young man had lived his final moments, alone and cut off from the world above. Had he known what was happening? Had anyone waited for him to come home? Had someone named Rebecca spent years wondering what had become of him?

The questions settled in her chest with surprising weight.

“My grandmother lived in this neighborhood during the Blitz,” she said suddenly, the words emerging with more emotion than she’d intended. “She wasn’t in the pub that night, thankfully, but she remembered the raids vividly. How the ground would tremble. How entire buildings could vanish overnight, leaving nothing but empty spaces.”

Dr. Winters looked up with the bright interest of someone who’d found an unexpected treasure. “Did she leave behind any written accounts?”

“Some letters. A few recordings we managed to make before she passed.” Tessa felt a familiar pang—grief mixed with gratitude that she’d thought to preserve those fragile memories. “She mentioned The Red Lion specifically. Said it took damage but stayed standing when the buildings on either side were completely leveled. Called it a miracle, actually.”

“That could explain exactly how our victim was trapped,” Dr. Winters said thoughtfully, making notes on her clipboard. “If part of the building collapsed during the raid, sealing off the storage space while leaving the main structure intact...”

Morris flipped back a few pages in his notebook with the weary efficiency of someone whose job consisted largely of reconstructing tragedies from fragments. “I’ll push the archaeological team to prioritize this site. But until then, I suppose if the cellar stays sealed, we’ll call it good?”

“No problem.” It was significantly better than the complete shutdown she’d been bracing for. “Thank you, Detective. I really appreciate your flexibility.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered, though there was definitely a flicker of a smile beneath his professional frown. “The paperwork alone is going to be an absolute nightmare.”

After the last of the police crew packed up their equipment, Tessa stood in the settling stillness of her pub. The afternoon light had shifted while she wasn’t paying attention, shadows lengthening across the polished bar and mismatched floorboards that told the story of decades of repairs and renovations.

She wandered to the front window and traced the curved leading of the stained glass with one finger, following patterns that had been catching London light for over a century. This discovery changed everything. Not just her day or her week, but her entire strategy. If properly documented and presented, the hidden chamber—and the human tragedy it had concealed—might be exactly the key she needed to secure The Red Lion’s protected heritage status.

Which meant Sebastian and his development company would have a significantly harder time bulldozing her life’s work into profitable oblivion.

Speaking of Sebastian...

Tessa glanced at the antique clock behind the bar, its hands moving with the unhurried confidence of something that had been keeping time since before her grandmother was born. Sebastian had said he’d return after the police work concluded, which gave her maybe an hour to regroup, plan her counterstrategy, and—she glanced down at her dust-streaked blouse with a grimace—change into something that didn’t make her look like she’d been wrestling with century-old architectural features.

Which, to be fair, she essentially had.

Upstairs in her flat above the pub, she rummaged through her admittedly modest wardrobe and selected a deep green blouse with subtle embroidery at the collar—neat, professional, serious enough to command respect but not so formal as to suggest she was trying too hard. Perfect for facing down corporate sharks who thought they could buy their way through anything.

Halfway through changing, she caught herself in the mirror and hesitated, fingers stilling on the pearl buttons. Why was she putting this much thought into her appearance? Sebastian was just another corporate predator in an expensive suit, here to purchase what definitely wasn’t for sale. The fact that he had compelling gray eyes and an unfortunately attractive smile was completely irrelevant to the business at hand.

The same man whose steadying touch had sent that wholly inappropriate jolt through her nervous system the night before.

Irritated with herself, Tessa nearly tugged the dusty blouse back on out of pure spite. But practical logic won out over emotional rebellion—if she wanted to be taken seriously in what was essentially a high-stakes negotiation, she needed to look the part. Her clothing choice was pure strategy, not sentiment.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Sebastian had looked at her with those storm-gray eyes. Nothing whatsoever to do with that charged moment by the hearth when he’d caught her from falling.

Nothing at all.

She finished buttoning the blouse with perhaps more force than necessary.

Back downstairs, Tessa began methodically tidying the pub’s public spaces—straightening chairs displaced by the forensic team, wiping down surfaces, restoring order to her carefully maintained domain. She set up a corner table well away from the cordoned cellar area with her laptop and an organized array of folders: architectural diagrams, historical photographs, and what her friend Oliver laughingly called her “heritage application arsenal.”

If Sebastian wanted to negotiate, she would be ready. With facts, with documented history, and—thanks to this morning’s discovery—with significantly more leverage than either of them had expected.

As she opened the main folder, her eyes lingered on a sepia-toned photograph that never failed to give her chills. The Red Lion, circa 1947, during post-war reconstruction. Its walls patched with mismatched bricks, its windows intact, its doors open for business. Standing resolute and defiant while the buildings on either side remained nothing but rubble and empty lots.

This pub had survived German bombs, the Great Fire of London, economic recessions, and decades of men with big plans and bigger egos.

It would survive Sebastian, too.

The sunlight streaming through the stained glass had begun to dim as afternoon edged toward evening. The amber and ruby patches on the floor deepened into richer shades of rust and wine, and Tessa found herself unconsciously adjusting her hair in the half-broken mirror behind the bar, tucking loose strands into place with the automatic gestures of someone preparing for battle.

She caught sight of her reflection in the fractured glass and frowned at herself. This was absolutely ridiculous. Sebastian was just another developer with more money than sense. His opinion of her appearance—or anything else, for that matter—was completely irrelevant to the outcome of this conversation.

Still, when the smooth, expensive purr of what sounded like a very high-end engine rolled to a stop outside her front door, she couldn’t help taking one last glance in the mirror to make sure she looked appropriately professional and unapproachable.

In that splintered reflection, something shifted behind her.

A figure. A shadow where there definitely should have been nothing but empty space. Watching from the far corner of the room with what felt like profound interest.

Tessa spun around sharply, heart skipping several beats in rapid succession.

Nothing.

Just the familiar shadows cast by her furniture and the soft settling sounds of a building that had been accommodating London weather for centuries. But the temperature had dropped just enough to raise goosebumps along her arms, and she had the lingering impression of having been observed by someone with a very personal interest in the evening’s proceedings.

The soft chime of the front door opening made her jump slightly.

Sebastian stood in the entrance, perfectly silhouetted by the gathering twilight like some sort of corporate romance novel hero. His expensive coat suggested he’d taken the time to go home and change as well, though on him it looked effortlessly elegant rather than strategically calculated. The man probably looked perfectly put-together rolling out of bed at six in the morning, which was both unfair and deeply annoying.

Tessa squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and met his gaze with every ounce of professional determination she could muster.

This place had history on its side. Centuries of it. And so did she.

If Sebastian thought he could quietly erase The Red Lion from London’s landscape, he was about to discover that some things—and some people—don’t go down without a proper fight.