The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and unmarked—no stamp, no return address. It sat on her doormat like a warning, as if it had no business in a life like hers.Lana bent down to pick it up, brushing her fingers over the expensive linen paper. Heavy. Sealed in wax. Her name was handwritten in dark ink across the front in precise, sloping calligraphy. It looked like it belonged to a royal court or an ancient will, not a walk-up apartment in a forgotten corner of Brooklyn, where the heat barely worked and the air smelled like damp plaster.Her instincts whispered: Don’t open it.Her curiosity overruled them.Inside, the message was short and strange:Miss Lana Rey,You are cordially requested to attend a private engagement interview at the Thompson Estate on Friday, the 12th of September, at 7:00 p.m. Transportation will be provided. Further details to follow.This summons is binding by agreement of guardianship.Kindly dress accordingly.– The Thompson Family.

Grey hated mirrors.There was one directly across from him in the dark-paneled study, tall and antique, the kind that made every shadow behind you look like a figure waiting to strike. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and stiff, a man wearing the life of a stranger.He loosened the buttons on his cuffs and turned away from the glass.Across the room, flames flickered in the hearth, dancing around iron logs that hadn’t truly warmed this place in years. The fire was just for show. Like everything else in this house.He poured a glass of scotch. Didn’t drink it.The meeting with her—Lana—had been shorter than expected, but it had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. She was exactly like the girl in the painting. Not similar. Not close. Identical.Down to the scar at the edge of her left brow, just beneath the hairline. He hadn’t noticed it immediately. But now he couldn’t unsee it.And the name.Alana.He remembered whispering it, once. Before his name was ever Grey. Be

Grey hadn’t been to the west wing in years.Even as a boy, before the memories blurred and the guardians tightened their grip on what he was allowed to see, that part of the estate had been off-limits. The doors were always locked. The windows sealed. And the halls beyond were said to be unsafe—too fragile, too old.Lies. All of it.Now, walking past the faded portraits and tarnished sconces, he could feel something shift. Not physically. Emotionally. Like the walls themselves were watching.The key in his pocket was cold. Too cold for brass. He pulled it free and studied it under the faint moonlight filtering through a high, dust-covered window.Old. Iron. Hand-cut teeth.Not the kind of key you gave to staff.He paused outside the final door. Carved mahogany. Faded crest at the top—one he hadn’t seen since childhood.Two roses. Twined around a sword.He didn’t remember what it meant. But something in his chest twisted.Grey turned the key.The lock clicked open with a soft, reluctan

The house was trying to tell her something.Lana knew that now. It wasn’t just shadows and strange dreams. It wasn’t even the ghostly girls in the mirror or the lullabies echoing through her bones. It was deeper than that. Intentional.And it wanted her to remember.By noon, she could no longer stay in the sitting room. Every tick of the grandfather clock felt like a countdown, and the walls — polished and quiet — seemed to lean closer with every passing hour.She needed air.Lana slipped out, careful not to make a sound. No sign of Miss Ward. No servants in the halls. Just silence, still and listening.She didn’t know where she was going, only that her feet led her there — back toward the older part of the estate. The one Grey had told her nothing about.The corridor was colder here.Unlived-in.She paused beside a narrow hallway framed in carved oak. The wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards scuffed from age. A single cracked painting hung on the wall — two children playing near a

The Billionaire and His Blood-BrideThe library was silent.Too silent.Not the kind born of peace — the kind that warned of presence. Of watching. Of secrets waiting to wake.Lana’s footsteps made no sound on the Persian rug as she followed Grey past rows of aging volumes and glass-encased manuscripts. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, throwing thin lines of silver across the shelves. The air felt heavy, as though the room itself remembered everything that had ever been hidden inside it.Grey didn’t speak as he led her toward the rear corner of the west wing — a place she hadn’t explored. His shoulders stiffened as they approached a dark wood bookcase, worn and taller than the rest. His whole demeanor changed, suddenly alert. Guarded. Haunted.“This way,” he said softly. His fingers skimmed the edge of the shelf. “There’s a lever in one of these books.”She blinked. “You’ve done this before?”“When I was a kid. I used to hide here when… things got bad upstairs.” His hand s