The Billionaire and his Blood-Bride

Chapter Six: The Housekeeper’s Smile

Morning sunlight didn’t quite reach the east wing.

The curtains had been drawn open, and the windows faced a perfect view of the garden hedge maze beyond the estate—but still, everything in Lana’s room felt dim. The light didn’t settle. It hovered, uncertain.

Much like her thoughts.

She had hardly slept. Dreams had come in waves—children laughing in rooms she didn’t recognize, lullabies echoing off stone walls, and firelight flashing across a man’s face she couldn’t place.

Grey’s words replayed on a loop.

They’ve erased everything.

Only together will they remember.

She’d almost told him about the second girl in the mirror. The one who looked like her. But something stopped her.

Fear, maybe.

Or the growing suspicion that everything she remembered had been edited.

The sound of footsteps outside her door snapped her from her thoughts.

A knock.

Sharp. Measured.

Lana slipped out of bed and opened it cautiously.

A woman stood in the hallway—a vision of poise. Early forties, maybe. Iron-gray hair swept into a bun. Perfect posture. Crisp black-and-white uniform without a single wrinkle.

She offered a tight-lipped smile. “Miss Rey. Forgive the intrusion. Breakfast is ready, and Mr. Thompson asked me to personally see to your comfort this morning.”

Lana hesitated. “You’re…?”

“Miss Evangeline Ward,” the woman said. “Housekeeper. I run the interior of the estate.”

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“No,” she said simply. “I arrived late last night.”

Her eyes didn’t blink enough. Lana noticed that instantly.

“Follow me,” Miss Ward said, already turning down the hall.

Lana had no choice but to obey.

As they walked through the corridor, Lana’s gaze lingered on the framed paintings—portraits of unfamiliar ancestors. All proud, cold eyes and tight collars. They all looked like they’d kept too many secrets.

Miss Ward walked in silence. No unnecessary chatter. No glance over the shoulder to check if Lana was following. Just steady clicks of her heels across the marble.

“You’ve lived here long?” Lana asked, if only to fill the silence.

“I’ve served the Thompson family for eighteen years,” she replied without turning. “Long enough to know the rhythm of this house. When it breathes. When it holds its breath.”

That choice of words made Lana uneasy.

They turned into a sitting room—modest by estate standards, but still grand. A table set for two. Fine china. A silver dome covering warm dishes.

“You may wait here,” Miss Ward said. “Mr. Thompson will join you shortly.”

But she didn’t leave.

She lingered in the doorway, eyes scanning the shelves like she was taking inventory of things that weren’t hers.

Lana cleared her throat. “You said you arrived late last night. Did you see anything… unusual?”

A slight twitch at the corner of the housekeeper’s mouth. Almost a smirk.

“The estate is old,” she said. “Old places hold echoes. Most of them harmless.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“I’ve learned that questions can be more dangerous than answers, Miss Rey. Especially in this house.”

Lana frowned. “Why would a housekeeper care what I ask?”

Miss Ward finally looked at her then. Her eyes were the color of overcast skies.

“I care,” she said softly, “because not every girl who walks into this estate walks out again.”

Silence.

Heavy. Unwelcome.

Then she smiled. Too smoothly.

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine, though,” she added, as if that erased what had just been said.

Before Lana could speak again, Miss Ward stepped back into the hall and closed the door.

Lana stood frozen.

The silence in the room didn’t feel natural. It felt arranged.

Her eyes flicked to the bookshelves.

She wandered closer. Rows of leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, all dusted, none disturbed. All except one—a slim book with no title, its spine cracked and faded.

She pulled it out. It was blank.

At first.

Then, as she flipped toward the middle, ink began to bleed through the page. As if the words were only now appearing.

She watches through mirrors.

She waits behind doors.

She never left.

Lana dropped the book.

The air in the room shifted.

The fireplace hissed softly—no flame. Just the sound of coals breathing.

The silver dome on the breakfast tray began to tremble slightly. A subtle, rhythmic clink.

Lana stepped forward and slowly lifted the cover.

Nothing inside.

Just an envelope.

Cream paper. Gold seal.

Her name written across the front in the same handwriting she had seen on the mirror.

Lana.

She reached for it, fingers trembling—when the door behind her creaked open.

She turned sharply—expecting Grey.

But it was Miss Ward again. Expression unchanged.

“You haven’t touched your food,” she said mildly.

“There’s an envelope here,” Lana said. “With my name. Who—”

But when she turned back, the tray was empty again.

No dome.

No envelope.

Just a single spoon resting neatly on the napkin, like it had always been that way.

Miss Ward’s smile didn’t falter.

“I think perhaps,” she said, “you’re still adjusting to the house.”

“I’m not hallucinating.”

“No,” said Miss Ward. “You’re remembering.”

She stepped back.

“And that,” she added with a cold sweetness, “is far more dangerous.”

The door closed again behind her.

And this time, Lana locked it.