Chapter 3:The second Killer

The note burned in Ariella’s pocket like a ticking bomb. Every step she took echoed in the long, silent corridors of the mansion, amplifying the paranoia clawing at her chest. Who left that note? Who knew about the ring on Lucien’s hand? And what guilt could possibly be heavier than murder?

Dinner was served in awkward silence. Lucien sat at the far end of the impossibly long mahogany table, a glass of red wine in hand, eyes trained on her like a hawk.

“You look pale,” he said, swirling his wine. “Did you sleep well?”

She smiled tightly. “Just adjusting.”

He nodded once, like a king granting mercy. The servants moved like shadows around them, all dressed in black and white, emotionless, efficient. But one of them—a young man with an angular jaw and piercing eyes—caught her attention.

He was new. She was sure of it.

He didn’t meet her gaze. But the way he moved, the way his hand trembled slightly as he poured her water, it screamed nerves. Or warning.

She risked a glance under the table—a folded edge of paper stuck out of his left pocket.

Another note?

She remained still. Waited.

When dinner ended, she returned to her room, but left the door slightly ajar. Minutes later, soft footsteps padded past her room. She crept into the hallway. The servant was walking briskly toward the east wing.

Her father’s forbidden wing.

Heart racing, Ariella followed. She stayed in the shadows, just as her father had taught her during their weekend survival games. Games that suddenly didn’t feel like games anymore.

The servant glanced over his shoulder once, then ducked through a narrow door she’d never noticed before. She waited. Counted to thirty. Then slipped inside.

The air inside was cold. Dusty.

The corridor was narrow, lined with cracked wallpaper and unlit bulbs. It led to a spiral staircase that descended into darkness.

Ariella hesitated. Her pulse thundered.

She went down.

Each step creaked under her weight. The scent of damp earth filled her nose. At the bottom, a heavy wooden door waited. She pressed her ear to it.

Muffled voices.

One male. The servant.

The other—Lucien.

She barely breathed.

“She found the file,” the servant said. “She knows about Project Ares.”

A pause.

Lucien's voice was low. Dangerous. “Let her. It’s part of the plan.”

The servant's voice trembled. “What if she finds the safe?”

“She won’t,” Lucien replied. “Unless someone helps her.”

Footsteps.

She bolted up the stairs, heart pounding, barely making it back to the corridor before the door opened behind her.

She didn’t look back.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind raced.

Lucien wasn’t hiding the truth.

He wanted her to find it.

Why?

Was it guilt? A trap? Or something worse?

She remembered her father’s words during one of their last conversations. He had been serious, graver than ever before.

_"If anything happens to me, don’t trust the man who hides in plain sight. The one who smiles with dead eyes."

Back then, she thought he meant her uncle. Or maybe a business rival.

But Lucien’s smile—charming, cold, calculated—fit the warning too well.

Still, who was the second killer?

She needed answers.

The next morning, she returned to the east wing, this time at sunrise.

The door was unlocked.

She followed the path again—down the spiral stairs, through the wooden door. The underground room was dimly lit now, and empty. On one wall were dozens of shelves stacked with documents.

In the corner stood a large metal filing cabinet. Locked.

But next to it was something stranger: an old trunk. She opened it slowly.

Inside were photographs. Dozens.

Of her.

At five years old, swinging in her backyard.

At nine, with braces, holding a birthday cake.

At twelve, asleep in her boarding school dorm.

All taken from a distance. Some clearly from security cameras.

She sank to her knees.

Lucien had been watching her for years. Long before her father died. Long before they ever met.

Her skin crawled.

Suddenly, a whisper echoed from behind her.

“You weren’t supposed to find this.”

She turned slowly.

Lucien stood in the doorway, eyes unreadable.

His voice was soft.

“Now you know the truth, Ariella.”

He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him.

“Let me tell you who really killed your father.”

She backed away, spine hitting the cold wall. "Don't come any closer."

Lucien paused, his hands raised in mock surrender. "You're scared. I understand."

"You've been spying on me since I was a child," she snapped. "What kind of sick obsession is this?"

"Obsession?" His laugh was dry. "No, Ariella. This was protection."

She didn’t believe him. Couldn’t.

"You're lying. You knew him—my father. You worked with him, didn't you? Project Ares—what is it?"

Lucien didn't answer immediately. He studied her, the weight in his eyes unreadable.

"Some truths are more dangerous than lies," he finally said. "You're not ready."

She stepped closer, anger pushing past fear. "I deserve to know."

He smiled faintly. "And you will. But not tonight. Go upstairs. Sleep. And don't come back here again."

"Or what?"

His gaze darkened. "Or you might not like what else you uncover."

He walked past her, brushing her shoulder with calculated calm. When she turned around, the door had shut behind him.

And locked.

She was alone in the room full of secrets.

But she didn’t cry.

She looked around again—and spotted a photo she hadn't noticed before.

Her father. Smiling.

Standing next to Lucien.

And a third man.

She picked it up, heart racing.

The third man was the same man from her father’s funeral.

The one who disappeared before she could speak to him.

The real second killer?

The plot thickened.

And Ariella was done waiting for the truth to come to her.

She would dig it up herself.

Even if it buried her.

She took a step back, bracing for whatever would come next.