The Billionaire and his Blood-Bride

Chapter Seven: The Letter Beneath the Floorboards

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 pond. One of them bore her face. Again.

Lana stepped inside.

Dust stirred around her ankles, kicked up by her movement. The door at the end of the hallway looked warped, its brass knob rusted. She tried it.

Locked.

Of course.

But just as she turned to leave, she heard it. A creak — subtle but deliberate — beneath her feet.

She crouched and ran her fingers along the floor. One board was looser than the rest.

Her heart thudded.

Prying it free wasn’t easy. Her nails chipped against the wood, and she had to use a hairpin from her pocket to wedge the edge. But eventually, with a groan of splintered resistance, the board lifted.

Inside the hollow space was a velvet pouch.

And inside the pouch—paper.

A letter, yellowed with age, its seal half-broken.

No envelope. Just a folded sheet with a jagged edge, as if it had been torn from a larger book.

She unfolded it carefully.

To whoever finds this —

They lied. About the fire. About the twins.

About what happened to her.

They said she died. She didn’t.

They took her.

If you’re reading this, you’re already part of the story.

Be careful who you trust.

The uncle knows. The house remembers.

And she is waking up.

There was no signature.

Just a symbol at the bottom of the page.

Two roses. One dark. One light. Twined around a dagger.

Lana stared at it, pulse pounding.

Suddenly, the hallway creaked again.

Not beneath her.

Behind her.

She stood quickly, shoving the letter into her coat.

The door at the end of the hall—

It was open.

Just a crack.

Someone had unlocked it.

“Hello?” she called, her voice small in the silence.

No answer.

She stepped toward it cautiously, fingers grazing the wall for balance.

Beyond the door was a narrow staircase, leading downward. Cold air rushed up from below — damp, earthy, old.

A basement?

She hesitated. Every part of her screamed to go back. But something else — something deep and wordless — urged her to go forward.

She took the first step.

The stairs groaned under her weight, each one older than the last. The walls closed in as she descended, and the light faded fast.

She reached the bottom.

And found herself in a cellar carved from stone. Not the wine kind — no racks, no bottles. This was something older. More primitive.

The walls were lined with iron hooks. A single cot sat against the far wall, its frame rusted, mattress torn. Chains. Shackles. Scratches on the stone.

Like someone had been held here.

Or many.

Lana’s breath caught.

She turned to leave—and froze.

A figure stood at the top of the stairs.

Not Grey.

Not Miss Ward.

She couldn’t see a face. Just the silhouette of a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered.

The light behind him cast his shadow down the stairs like a curtain.

And then, he stepped away—disappearing from view.

“Wait—” Lana shouted, rushing up the steps.

But by the time she reached the top, the door had slammed shut.

Locked.

She was trapped.