THE HEIR'S AGONY TRIAL BY FIRE

FRACTURED REALITY

Aidan’s breaths came in shallow gasps as he clutched his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. The faint hum of the city outside was his only company, a stark contrast to the vivid chaos that had played out in his mind. Every detail of the confrontation with William Cross felt as tangible as the walls surrounding him, yet now it seemed to dissolve into mist.

Sliding his legs off the bed, Aidan rubbed his temples. His head throbbed as if punishing him for daring to believe in something so real yet so illusory. The dim glow of his bedside clock read 3:14 AM. He let out a shaky sigh and stood, his bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor.

"Just a dream," he murmured, though the words rang hollow.

He wandered into the small kitchen, the silence oppressive. Pouring himself a glass of water, Aidan replayed the scenes in his mind—the intensity of William’s eyes, the weight of Clara’s diary in his hand, and the heavy silence that followed William’s words: “If you want to know everything, you’ll have to play by my rules.”

He gripped the counter, frustration boiling inside him. It wasn’t just a dream. It couldn’t be. There was something too visceral about it, as though his subconscious was piecing together fragments of a truth buried deep within.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a faint light spilling out from under Clara’s door. It was unusual for her to be awake at this hour. Tiptoeing toward her room, he hesitated before knocking softly.

“Mom?” he called out.

There was no response.

Curiosity prickled at him, and he slowly turned the doorknob. The room was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of lavender. Clara wasn’t there. Aidan frowned, scanning the neatly arranged room. On her bedside table lay a book she often read before bed. His gaze drifted over the worn pages before a corner of a photograph sticking out caught his attention.

Heart pounding, Aidan reached for it. The sepia-toned image depicted a younger Clara, radiant and carefree, standing beside a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the William Cross from his dream. The man’s arm rested lightly around her shoulders, his smile warm but reserved.

Aidan’s breath hitched. This wasn’t just coincidence. He flipped the photograph over and found a date scrawled in Clara’s delicate handwriting: June 15, 1995. Beneath it, two initials sent a chill down his spine: W.C.

He sank onto Clara’s bed, the photograph trembling in his hands. The dream wasn’t just a manifestation of his imagination—it was a catalyst. Aidan felt as though he was standing at the edge of a precipice, the photograph the first piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he needed to solve.

By the time Clara returned, Aidan was waiting in the living room, the photograph resting on the coffee table. Her eyes darted to it, and she froze.

"Where did you find that?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"In your room," Aidan replied, his tone matching her intensity. "Mom, who is he? Is this William Cross?"

Clara’s face paled, and she sank into the armchair opposite him. “You had no right to go through my things.”

“You had no right to hide this from me,” Aidan shot back. His frustration bubbled over. “Do you have any idea how many questions I have? How much I’ve been struggling to piece together my own life? And now this? You need to tell me everything.”

Clara’s hands trembled as she reached for the photograph. She studied it for a long moment, her eyes misting over. “It was a lifetime ago, Aidan. A lifetime I’ve tried to forget.”

“That’s not good enough,” he pressed. “You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle. Who is he? And why does it feel like this man is at the center of everything we’ve been running from?”

Clara’s lips parted, but no words came out. She stared at the photograph as if it held the answers she couldn’t bear to speak. Finally, she whispered, “William Cross was… someone I thought I could build a life with. But he wasn’t the man I believed him to be.”

Aidan leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “What does that mean?”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “It means you need to let this go, Aidan. Let sleeping ghosts lie. Nothing good will come from digging up the past.”

But Aidan wasn’t ready to let it go. Not after everything he had felt and seen—dream or not. He left Clara in the living room and retreated to his room, the photograph still burning in his mind.

As the days passed, Aidan became consumed by the need for answers. He spent hours at the library, researching William Cross. He scoured old newspapers, public records, and online forums. Bits and pieces began to emerge—a young entrepreneur who rose to prominence in the mid-1990s, only to disappear from the public eye after a series of scandals.

Every thread Aidan pulled unraveled more mysteries, but it also made one thing clear: William Cross was not a man who faded quietly into obscurity. There was a story here, one that Clara was desperate to keep hidden.

One evening, Aidan found himself staring at a grainy newspaper photograph of William attending a charity gala. The headline read: The Elusive Heir: William Cross Spotted in New York City. The article was dated just two months ago.

Aidan’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t just a relic of the past. William Cross was very much alive and within reach.

The following night, Aidan approached Clara again, this time armed with his findings. He laid the articles and photographs in front of her, watching her reaction carefully.

Clara’s expression shifted from shock to resignation. “You’ve been busy,” she muttered.

“I had to be,” Aidan replied. “You won’t tell me the truth, so I had to find it myself.”

Clara sighed, her shoulders slumping. “What do you want from me, Aidan? An apology for keeping you safe? For trying to protect you from a world you’re not ready to face?”

“I want the truth,” he said firmly. “No more half-answers. No more secrets. Tell me who he really is and why you’ve been hiding him from me.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on them both. Finally, Clara spoke, her voice trembling but resolute.

“William Cross wasn’t just a man I loved,” she began. “He was a man who made promises he couldn’t keep. And when he failed, it wasn’t just me who paid the price. It was everyone I cared about.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Aidan’s mind raced, trying to piece together the fragmented narrative.

Clara’s final words before retreating to her room left Aidan reeling. “You think you want answers, Aidan, but some truths will destroy you. Let him go before it’s too late.”