2025-08-26 16:35:36Lana couldn’t move.
The man in the shadows stood tall, his features carved sharp by the dim light. His tailored suit fit like armor, every inch of him precise, controlled, dangerous. And yet—his eyes. His eyes were the same haunting grey as the boy in the painting. And they were staring directly at her. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, his voice calm but cold, as if he were calculating every breath. Lana’s fingers clenched around the strap of her bag. “You’re Greyson Thompson?” A pause. His eyes flicked to the painting behind her, then back to her face. “I go by Grey,” he said slowly. “No one calls me Greyson anymore.” There was something unspoken in his tone—something dark and unfinished. Lana took a half step back, her instincts coiling tighter with each word. “This is… some kind of mistake,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “I got a letter. No signature. No explanation. Just an address and a name.” He didn’t answer. He just stared. Lana hated silence. Especially the kind that felt like it held answers hostage. “I shouldn’t be here,” she added, turning slightly toward the door. “This isn’t what I thought—” “You’re not leaving.” His voice was calm, but the finality in it made her freeze. “What?” Her heart stuttered. “You were summoned by guardianship,” Grey said. “That means you’re bound to fulfill the terms of the contract.” Lana turned back toward him, her confusion boiling into anger. “I haven’t signed a damn thing. I don’t know you. I didn’t agree to any of this. And if you think you can trap someone with a wax seal and a ride in a fancy car—” “I don’t want this either.” He stepped into the light, and something shifted in his expression. “Trust me.” It caught her off guard—those last two words. Trust me. As if he already knew she wouldn’t. As if he didn’t expect to be believed. “I didn’t summon you,” he said. “I was summoned too.” Lana’s voice dropped. “By who?” “The people who still pull strings in this family.” His jaw tightened. “They arranged this years ago. We were just children.” Her mind whirled. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why me?” Grey stepped closer. His eyes moved over her slowly, like he was seeing something more than what stood in front of him. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I intend to find out.” Lana’s pulse raced. “So this is real? This whole thing? The marriage, the contract, the mansion—it’s all actually happening?” He gave a slight nod. “Unless one of us finds a way to undo it.” Her breath hitched. A long silence settled between them, broken only by the distant ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway. Then she asked the question she hadn’t dared voice since entering the house. “That painting,” she said. “The one in the foyer. Those children. Who are they?” Grey didn’t answer at first. He looked past her, toward the hall she’d just come through. Something flickered in his eyes—a shadow of memory, maybe, or a doubt he didn’t want to name. “I used to think they were portraits,” he said quietly. “But now I’m not sure they aren’t real.” She blinked. “You mean… us?” He didn’t nod. He didn’t deny it either. Lana took a step closer, her voice a whisper. “That girl… she has my eyes.” Grey met her gaze again. His voice, when he finally spoke, was hollow. “I noticed.” The air shifted. For a moment, the mansion seemed to shrink around her, its high ceilings closing in, its elegant walls suddenly oppressive. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t belong here,” she said softly. “Neither do I,” he replied. They stood in silence. The kind of silence that came before thunder. Then he turned and motioned toward a side hallway. “You’ll be staying in the east wing. Third floor. There’s staff on call if you need anything.” “That’s it?” she asked. “You’re just sending me to bed like this is summer camp?” He didn’t smile. “You’ll need rest.” “For what?” “For what comes next.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. As he walked away, Lana stood frozen at the base of the staircase, her mind racing. Her thoughts looped around a single word from the painting’s plaque. Thompson. She’d never used that name. Never known anyone with it. And yet— Alana Thompson. Why did that name feel like it had always belonged to her? She didn’t notice the butler return until he cleared his throat beside her. “Miss Rey,” he said gently, “your room is prepared.” She followed him in silence up the long staircase, her hand grazing the carved banister as she climbed. Every step echoed like a countdown. At the top, he gestured to a massive door with golden inlays. “You will be safe here.” Safe. Lana stepped inside, and the door closed softly behind her. The room was too large, too quiet. Heavy curtains blocked out the moonlight. She moved toward the vanity, touching the edges of old perfume bottles and framed photos that weren’t hers. In the mirror, she saw her own face. Then—just for a moment—she saw someone else standing behind her. A girl. Same face. Same eyes. But younger. Gone in a blink.
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Chapter Eighty — What Remains of Us
By morning, the rain had thinned to a mist that clung to the trees like breath. The world outside the cabin was a blur of gray and green, silent except for the dripping of water through leaves. Grey hadn’t slept. Lana could tell by the way he stood at the window, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the fog. The torn page from Seraphine’s letter lay on the table between them — five words that had rearranged everything they thought they knew. You’re looking in the wrong fire. Lana rose quietly, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “You’ve been standing there for hours,” she said. Grey didn’t look away. “I keep thinking about the timeline. If Seraphine’s right — if there was another fire — then the one that killed my mother might’ve been staged. Everything since might’ve been built on that lie.” “She’s baiting you,” Lana said softly. “Or warning you. I can’t tell which.” He finally turned, eyes shadowed but alert. “There’s an old Thompson site north of here — a textile property. It b
Chapter Seventy Nine – The Warning
By morning, the storm had drained itself into a gray, exhausted drizzle. Grey was already dressed when Lana opened her eyes. The ledger lay closed on the table, wrapped once more in its oilcloth, as if putting it away could undo what it had revealed. “I need to go back,” he said simply. “There’s someone who might know more. My uncle’s assistant — Harlan. He handled Foundation correspondence.” Lana sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “You think he’ll tell you the truth?” “I think he’ll slip up trying not to.” He left before she could argue, leaving only the faint smell of rain on his coat and the soft creak of the door. For hours, the cabin held its silence. Lana made tea that went cold before she ever tasted it. The ledger tempted her like a wound — impossible not to reopen. She turned the pages again, tracing the names. Some entries were marked lost in incident. Others had no endings at all. One entry, written in rushed ink, simply read: Subject relocated – location
Chapter Seventy Eight - The Ledger
The lamp had gone out sometime after midnight, leaving the hut soaked in blue-black quiet. Lana lay awake, eyes open to the faint glow leaking through the window slats. Every creak of timber felt amplified, every breath heavy with thought. Grey hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. But she knew he wasn’t asleep. He never was, not when his mind was circling the past like a wolf around a wound. She turned her head toward him. “Do you ever think,” she murmured, “that some things survive just to haunt us?” Grey’s answer was low, rasped, almost lost to the dark. “Every day.” It wasn’t a confession. It was a truth scraped raw. Silence stretched — long, heavy, pulsing with the echo of the stranger’s warning still alive in her skull: Don’t trust him fully. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have sounded so believable. Finally, Grey pushed himself upright. His outline cut against the faint glow of the dying embers. “There’s something you should see,” he said quietly. He rose, cross
Chapter Seventy-Seven — The Night Watch
The sound of Lana’s breathing steadied before it softened. Grey waited a while longer to be sure.The lamp had gone out completely now, leaving only the dim light of the moon spilling through the window — a thin, colorless wash across the floorboards. He sat where he was, on the low chair near the hearth, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely, listening to the quiet.Outside, the wind had eased. A faint drip of melting snow ticked against the eaves. The kind of silence that came after long violence — too still to be trusted.He should have slept. He knew that. But his body had long forgotten how.He turned his gaze toward her — the narrow rise and fall of her shoulders under the blanket, the faint line of her jaw in the half-dark. Even in sleep, she looked tense, her fingers curled into the fabric as though bracing for something.He exhaled slowly.Don’t trust him fully.The words had hit her hard. He’d seen it in her eyes — the flash of fear, the betrayal she tried to hide. He c
Chapter Seventy-Six – Ash Between Us
The wind had died down by the time Grey shut the door, but the cold clung to the seams of the little hut. The paper bag he’d brought—bread, two tins, and a thermos—sat forgotten on the table between them.Lana hadn’t moved since he came in. The card still lay near her, charred around the edges, the faint trace of smoke curling from it as though reluctant to leave.Grey crouched beside her, studying the floorboards, the shadows, the corners. He didn’t touch her. “Whoever it was,” he said quietly, “they knew how to get this close without leaving a sound.”Lana nodded numbly. Her hands were stiff, her knuckles white against her knees. “He didn’t break in. He just… stood there. Like he knew I’d wake.”Grey’s gaze flicked to her. “He?”She hesitated. “I think so. His voice was low, soft. He said…” Her throat closed. The words still felt too heavy, too strange. Don’t trust him fully.Grey didn’t push. He stood slowly, arms folded, his profile sharp against the flicker of lamplight. “And the
Chapter Seventy-Five: Shadows Don’t Burn
The silence after the storm had its own kind of violence.Grey set the paper bag down on the counter — a simple, ordinary thing, the smell of coffee and bread spilling into the cold air. But nothing about the moment felt ordinary anymore.Lana was still standing by the table, the edges of the burned card singeing her palm. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “I didn’t see his face,” she said softly. “He was gone before I could—”Grey was already moving toward the window, scanning the treeline beyond the frost-glazed glass. “How long ago?”“Minutes,” she murmured. “Maybe less.”He turned back to her, his expression sharpening into that unreadable calm he wore when danger brushed too close. It wasn’t fear she saw in him — it was calculation.“He left this?” Grey asked, nodding toward the card in her hand.Lana hesitated before holding it out. The words were nearly gone, the ink burned at the edges. Grey’s fingers brushed hers as he took it — a small contact that sent her nerves sting
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