The Billionaire and his Blood-Bride

Chapter Five: The Locked Wing

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, reluctant groan.

The air beyond was stale. Undisturbed. He stepped inside and flicked on the wall sconce. Dim yellow light hummed to life.

And there it was.

A nursery.

Not pristine. Not ruined. Just… frozen.

Two small beds sat side by side, identical in shape but painted different colors—one pale blue, the other soft rose. A wooden chest sat between them, its lid closed and dusty. A shelf of faded books leaned unevenly along the back wall. And above it all, a mobile still hung from the ceiling, motionless despite the slight draft curling through the open door.

Grey’s throat tightened.

He stepped further inside and ran a hand over the closest bedpost. It creaked faintly under his fingers.

No cobwebs. No animal droppings. The room had been maintained. Preserved.

But by who?

He moved toward the chest and knelt beside it.

Inside were fragments of another life. A doll’s head. A toy plane. A music box with a cracked lid. He picked it up, turned the key, and let it play.

A haunting melody danced from its gears. One he’d heard only in dreams. The same song Lana had quoted the night before.

Alana Rose and Grey at play…

Hide and seek and run away…

His hand froze over the music box.

So it wasn’t just a dream.

It had been real. They’d played here. Laughed here.

Before everything changed.

A thud behind him made him jolt.

He turned—nothing there.

Just the door creaking slightly from the draft.

He stood and closed the lid on the toy chest. Then he noticed something tucked beneath one of the pillows on the rose-colored bed.

A small book. Leather-bound. Worn edges.

He picked it up and flipped it open.

Handwriting filled the pages—looped, feminine, hurried in places. A diary. Dated entries.

The first line:

They’ll come for her tomorrow. They promised I’d keep one, but now they want both.

His blood chilled.

He flipped to the next page.

I marked the boy’s file. I switched the tags. If they only take one, let it be him. She deserves a chance to grow free of all this. They won’t check the blood twice. They never do.

The ink blurred there, like the page had been touched while wet.

Grey sat heavily on the bed.

He didn’t recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t his mother’s—or the woman he thought had been his mother.

This was someone else.

A guardian? A nursemaid?

A sister?

The diary went on for a few more pages—most of them vague, talking about watching from windows, overhearing arguments behind closed doors, “the twins” being too close, too bound.

One line stood out:

If they ever remember each other, everything we’ve built will burn.

Grey closed the book.

He rose, stepping back toward the door—but something caught his eye in the cracked mirror beside the bookshelf.

A word.

Written in the dust.

“Run.”

He blinked.

It wasn’t there a second ago.

A voice echoed behind him—his own, from memory.

We have to go now, Alana. Before they come back.

But no one was in the room.

Just the silence.

And the steady pulse rising in his ears.

He turned and left the nursery, locking the door behind him, tucking the key and the diary deep into his coat.

Whatever this estate was hiding—

It had just taken its first breath.