Chapter 4

Alex POV;

I didn’t scream.

I didn't flinch.

Not when the masked figure stepped closer, not even when they whispered those words that would root themselves in my bones.

“Before he makes you disappear like the others.”

I blinked—and they were gone.

Like smoke swallowed by shadows.

The secret passage clicked shut behind me, and suddenly the door to my room burst open. A blinding flashlight flooded my eyes.

“Miss Hart?” A guard’s voice. Harsh. “Are you okay?”

I stumbled back, heart hammering against the bone chain. “Someone was here!”

They stormed inside, flashlights sweeping every corner. Drawers yanked open, closet doors flung wide. But the intruder had vanished like a ghost, leaving only a gust of cold air in their wake.

“There’s no one for joke's,” one of them muttered.

“I swear, there was a man standing here—he wore a mask—he said Damian would—” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

They exchanged glances making me feel more like a liar.

“Maybe you were dreaming,” the taller one said.“This place takes some getting used to.”

I stared at him. “I’m not crazy, and i know what I saw!“

“Of course not,” he replied, in that tone people use when they think exactly the opposite.

They left me alone after that, but the silence pressed heavier than before—tension building up within myself. Sleep never came. I curled under the covers, staring at the locked door, waiting for something—anything—to prove I hadn’t imagined it.

But the darkness remained still. Too still.

It making me feel like, I was really crazy and no one was here.

---

The next morning, I didn’t eat. I didn’t even speak. I walked through the halls like a ghost in my own body, flinching at every glance, wondering which corner might be watching me.

Had I hallucinated it?

Was it the stress?

Or was Damian slowly pulling the strings around my neck, tighter every day?

I needed answers to my questions.

So I did the one thing I hadn’t dared yet—wander the mansion while everyone else was distracted.

I kept to the shadows, slipping past the guards during their shift change. The hallways stretched endlessly, lined with doors carved from oak and trimmed in gold. Some opened easily. Others had gleaming digital locks.

At one door, I paused. My hand hovered over the knob when a quiet voice behind me said, “Don’t open that.”

I turned. It was a maid—young, pale, her eyes darting to the corners like the walls might whisper.

“Why?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Some doors open to graves and ones death.”

She hurried away before I could ask anything more.

---

That night, I lay awake again, my mind chasing memories like they were puzzle pieces scattered in fog.

I remembered once, when I was thirteen, my father had guests over—powerful-looking men in suits. I wasn’t supposed to listen, but I had.

One voice stood out. Smooth. Cold.

“We had a deal, Charles. Don’t make me collect it the hard way.”

My father’s voice, weary and stren. “Just a little more time.”

“I won’t forget. Payment is due. In blood or legacy.”

Even now, the voice echoed inside me like a curse.

Could that have been Damian father?

What debt had my father left behind—and had it come to collect in the form of me?

I just couldn't let the thoughts out of my head.

---

I found the letter by accident.

I was exploring a guest wing that seemed long-forgotten—dust thick on the furniture, curtains drawn tight.

One painting tilted on the wall, slightly off-center. I adjusted it—and something fell behind it.

A yellowed envelope.

It was sealed, but the edges had worn away.

To Charles Hart. My father name was written boldly on it.

I tore it open with shaking hands, my mind racing with what I might see in there.

The handwriting inside was sharp and controlled.

You thought death would erase the past. It doesn’t. I haven’t forgotten. Payment is due. In blood… or legacy. You know which I prefer.

No signature.

But I didn’t need one to place my guess right.

“Dad, why?“ I mummered out, my whole body changing, feeling like I wanted to tear up.

  My dad had always wanted the best for me even though his life would be on the line, but I couldn't understand why he used me for his own games of wealth and powers.

   Something just couldn't feel right to me.

Was this letter framed? 

---

The letter trembled in my fingers as I read it again. A thousand questions surged through me like electricity.

What had my father done?

What did Damian mean by legacy?

Why me?

I turned—my breath caught in my throat.

He was standing there.

Damian.

Framed in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable. His eyes, though… those eyes were wildfire under ice.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” he said softly, taking few steps to approach me.

And he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

I saw something ran through his eyes— was that anger—maybe it just my head playing tricks with me.

 His look on me made my fear increase, my whole body shaky.

The letter slipped from my fingers, floating to the floor like a dying truth—as Damian took one slow, deliberate step closer.

“Now,” he said, voice like steel drawn in the dark, “we’ll have to discuss what else you’ve been hiding.”