The Son-in-Law Contract

“Julian Mercer?”

The woman’s voice was clipped, British, and laced with suspicion. She stood by the porch, her white blouse too crisp for the heat, her eyes sharp like she could see straight through the lie I’d written on the form.

“That’s me,” I said, keeping my tone calm and my hands buried in my pockets.

Her gaze flicked over me once; the cheap duffel, the rolled sleeves, the way I avoided the gold band on her finger. She nodded toward the doorway. “You’re late.”

I almost told her that people like me are born late, always running behind what they’re owed, but I bit my tongue. Instead, I stepped into the house that smelled of lemon polish and old money.

The Ardmore estate wasn’t a home; it was a reminder that time and wealth could be passed down like blood. Portraits stared down at me — stern men in dark suits, women who probably never laughed in public.

“This way,” the woman said. “Mr. Ardmore is waiting.”

I followed her into a library that looked untouched by dust or affection. A man in his sixties sat behind a heavy oak desk, his posture military straight, his expression somewhere between boredom and judgment. Beside him, a young woman with wild auburn curls sat in silence, twisting a pen between her fingers.

“This is Lila,” he said, nodding toward her. “My daughter.”

Lila’s eyes lifted...green, steady, and assessing. There was a flicker of curiosity in them, maybe recognition, but it vanished just as quickly.

“Mr. Mercer...,” the older man said, sliding a folder across the table. “You understand the arrangement?”

“Yes, sir.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “Thirty days. You get your grant. I get my payment. No attachments.”

He gave a short nod, like this was all a business transaction, and maybe to him, it was. He opened the folder, revealing the contract I’d promised myself I’d never sign again — not after what happened last time, not after the name I’d buried.

Lila leaned forward, her tone light but edged with something sharp. “And what happens if the board asks for proof?”

Her father’s gaze flicked to her. “They won’t. They respect the Ardmore name.”

“But if they do?” she pressed.

I met her eyes. “Then I’ll play the role.”

For a moment, the air between us felt charged, like she was testing me for cracks. Then she smiled, small and knowing. “Let’s hope you’re good at pretending.”

I signed my name, each stroke of the pen heavier than the last.

The first night, I learned the house had more silence than sound. The staff kept their heads down. Lila stayed upstairs, her laughter occasionally echoing through the hall — a sound that didn’t fit the walls. I slept in a guest room near the east wing, the one with the piano covered in dust and a photo of a woman who looked too much like my mother.

I shouldn’t have looked closer, but curiosity and ghosts share the same hunger. The piano was out of tune, but when I lifted the lid, I found a thin ledger wedged between the strings — names, dates, payments. Some crossed out, some underlined in red.

At the top of the page: M. Mercer.

My chest tightened.

That name — that damn name — followed me even here.

I snapped the book shut, but the sound echoed too loud, and when I turned, Lila was standing at the doorway, barefoot, wearing a faded sweatshirt that didn’t belong in this kind of house.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, eyes darting to the piano.

“Bad habit,” I said.

She stepped closer, her tone soft but laced with suspicion. “That piano’s been shut for years.”

I shrugged. “Curiosity’s another bad habit.”

“Careful,” she said, smiling faintly. “In this house, curiosity gets you burned.”

Her words felt like a warning, but also like a challenge.

The next few days blurred into polite breakfasts and hollow small talk. Mr. Ardmore paraded me before a board of men who looked too polished to sweat, introducing me as “the future of the Ardmore family.” Lila smiled beside me, hand in mine, nails digging in just enough to remind me that we were both acting.

But every night, I found myself drawn back to that piano. The ledger sat there like an accusation I couldn’t ignore. And every time I opened it, the knot in my gut grew tighter.

The names weren’t random — they were tied to foundations, trusts, and companies that didn’t exist anymore. The last few entries were smudged, almost erased, but I could still make out the initials: H.M.

My mother’s initials.

That’s when the neighbor showed up.

An old man with a cane and cloudy eyes, standing at the edge of the Ardmore gate. I was walking back from town when he called out.

“Mercer?” he croaked. “You’re Helena’s boy, aren’t you?”

The air froze.

I wanted to deny it — to say he was mistaken — but the way his expression softened told me he already knew.

“She used to play that piano,” he said, nodding toward the house. “Before the fire.”

“What fire?” I asked.

But he just shook his head and limped away, leaving the words heavy and unfinished.

That night, I couldn’t shake the unease. The house felt alive — whispering through the walls, humming through the pipes. Around midnight, I smelled smoke.

By the time I reached the east wing, the air was thick and hot. A small fire licked the piano’s edge, spreading fast across the curtains. I grabbed the extinguisher and doused the flames until the smoke thinned.

Lila appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, coughing. “What happened?”

“Someone tried to burn it,” I said, wiping the soot from my hands.

Her gaze dropped to the ledger on the floor, its cover blackened but intact. She looked up at me, her voice low. “That’s not supposed to exist.”

The words hit me harder than the heat. “You knew?”

She didn’t answer. She just turned, whispering, “You should’ve stayed away, Julian.”

Later, after the smoke cleared and the sirens faded, I sat outside watching the horizon turn gray. My name wasn’t safe here — it never was — but for the first time in years, I didn’t want to run.

I came for the money, but something in that house was older than lies and worth more than the grant they were chasing.

Maybe it was truth. Maybe it was blood.

Either way, the dark had already started, and if I wanted to find my way out — I’d have to walk straight through it.