Chapter 10

Valerie's POV

I barely remembered leaving the library.

The conversation lingered inside my mind long after it ended.

Your father knew about this house.

The sentence repeated endlessly.

Every corridor I walked through seemed to echo it back to me.

Every shadow appeared to carry the same accusation.

Your father knew.

I moved through the mansion in silence, guided more by instinct than direction. My feet carried me down unfamiliar hallways lined with dark wood and antique paintings. The air felt heavier than before, as though the house itself had shifted after Silas's confession.

Or perhaps I had shifted.

Nothing physically looked different.

The chandeliers still hung from impossibly high ceilings.

The marble floors still reflected soft pools of golden light.

The tall windows still framed endless stretches of white trees and distant mountains.

Yet the mansion no longer felt like a mystery I had stumbled into.

It felt personal now.

Dangerously personal.

Every answer seemed connected to my father.

That realization disturbed me more than I wanted to admit.

For most of my life, my father had been the one constant thing I trusted.

Even during difficult years.

Even when money became tight.

Even when life seemed determined to disappoint us.

He had always remained steady.

Reliable.

Safe.

Now every memory felt unstable.

Not broken.

Questionable.

I hated that feeling.

I hated what this place was doing to memories I had spent years protecting.

The hallway curved toward a large staircase.

I stopped beside one of the windows.

Outside, thick clouds gathered over the mountains.

The weather seemed to change constantly here.

One moment sunlight filled the estate.

The next, darkness rolled across the landscape.

The white trees swayed beneath the strengthening wind.

Their pale branches twisted together like silent warnings.

A chill crawled through me.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

For a long moment, I simply stood there watching.

Thinking.

Trying to fit impossible pieces together.

If my father knew about Blackwood Heights, why had he never mentioned it?

Why keep something like this secret?

Why hide Silas Vane?

Why hide Eleanor?

Why hide the portraits?

None of it made sense.

And the harder I searched for explanations, the more confused I became.

My thoughts drifted toward Mike.

Toward Sarah.

Toward the life I had left behind.

Only days ago, those betrayals had seemed like the center of my universe.

Now they felt strangely distant.

Still painful.

Still humiliating.

But smaller somehow.

As if larger forces had quietly been operating beneath the surface the entire time.

I wasn't sure which realization frightened me more.

The betrayal.

Or the possibility that it had only been the beginning.

The wind rattled softly against the glass.

The sound pulled me back to the present.

I pushed away from the window and continued walking.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside my bedroom.

The massive door stood slightly open.

A faint light glowed from inside.

For a brief moment, I hesitated.

The room no longer felt entirely mine.

Not after seeing the portraits.

Not after learning about Eleanor.

Not after understanding that women who looked like me had apparently lived inside this mansion before.

The thought followed me everywhere now.

Like a shadow.

I entered anyway.

The room remained untouched.

Everything sat exactly where I had left it.

The fireplace crackled softly.

The curtains shifted gently in the breeze.

Nothing appeared unusual.

Yet an uneasy feeling settled over me almost immediately.

A feeling I couldn't explain.

I stood perfectly still.

Listening.

The mansion was rarely silent.

Old buildings always made sounds.

Wood settling.

Pipes shifting.

Wind moving through hidden spaces.

Tonight felt different.

The silence seemed deliberate.

Watching.

Waiting.

My eyes slowly moved across the room.

The bed.

The desk.

The fireplace.

The bookshelves.

Then they stopped.

A notebook rested on the desk.

I froze.

I hadn't left a notebook there.

My pulse quickened.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

The object looked ordinary enough.

Black leather.

Aged corners.

No markings.

Yet I knew with absolute certainty it hadn't been there earlier.

The realization sent a wave of unease through me.

Someone had entered my room.

The thought arrived immediately.

Someone had been here while I was gone.

I approached cautiously.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet.

Each step felt louder than it should have.

The notebook remained motionless.

Waiting.

By the time I reached the desk, my heart was pounding heavily.

I reached for it.

Then stopped.

My hand hovered above the cover.

Something about touching it felt significant.

As though crossing a line.

As though whatever waited inside would change something.

I swallowed.

Then opened it.

The first page contained only a single sentence.

My breath caught instantly.

If you want the truth about your father, come to the east wing after midnight.

Nothing else.

No signature.

No explanation.

No name.

Only those words.

My stomach tightened painfully.

For several moments, I couldn't think.

I simply stared.

Reading the sentence repeatedly.

The east wing.

I remembered Mrs. Rose mentioning it.

Briefly.

Casually.

A section of the mansion that remained closed.

Unused.

Restricted.

The memory surfaced immediately.

A cold sensation spread through my chest.

Who had written this?

Why leave it here?

How had they entered my room?

Questions appeared faster than answers.

As always.

I closed the notebook slowly.

My mind raced.

This could be a trap.

The possibility seemed obvious.

Any reasonable person would recognize the danger.

Someone wanted me somewhere specific.

Alone.

At midnight.

Nothing about that sounded safe.

Yet another thought quickly followed.

What if the note was genuine?

What if someone inside this mansion wanted to help me?

What if they knew something about my father?

The possibility proved impossible to ignore.

I spent the next several hours attempting to distract myself.

It didn't work.

Dinner passed in a blur.

The food tasted like nothing.

The conversations around me barely registered.

Mrs. Rose appeared unusually quiet.

Silas remained impossible to read.

Every time I looked toward him, I found him observing me.

Not continuously.

Just enough.

Enough to keep me uneasy.

Enough to remind me that nothing inside this house happened by accident.

The notebook remained hidden beneath my mattress.

Its presence felt physical.

Like a weight pressing against my thoughts.

Midnight approached slowly.

Painfully slowly.

The grandfather clocks throughout the mansion marked each passing hour.

Their distant chimes echoed through the halls.

Eleven.

Eleven-thirty.

Eleven-forty-five.

With every minute, my anxiety grew.

I knew I shouldn't go.

The decision seemed obvious.

Stay inside the room.

Lock the door.

Ignore the note.

Any sensible person would do exactly that.

Unfortunately, I had never been particularly good at ignoring questions.

Especially questions connected to my father.

By eleven fifty-eight, I was already standing beside the door.

The realization annoyed me.

Part of me had apparently made the decision long ago.

I slipped quietly into the hallway.

The mansion slept beneath a blanket of darkness.

Only scattered lamps illuminated the corridors.

Long shadows stretched across the floors.

The air felt colder than usual.

My footsteps remained careful.

Silent.

Every sound seemed amplified.

The creak of wood.

The whisper of fabric.

The distant howl of wind outside.

I moved toward the eastern side of the mansion.

The journey felt longer at night.

The hallways appeared unfamiliar in darkness.

The house seemed larger.

Older.

More alive.

Eventually, I reached a section I didn't recognize.

The atmosphere changed immediately.

The polished elegance disappeared.

Dust coated the floors.

The walls showed signs of age.

Several lights remained dark.

The east wing.

Unease tightened inside me.

This place felt abandoned.

Not neglected.

Avoided.

As though people intentionally stayed away.

The realization did nothing to calm my nerves.

I continued anyway.

The corridor stretched ahead.

Silent.

Empty.

The darkness thickened with every step.

Then I saw it.

A faint light.

Near the end of the hall.

Someone stood there.

Motionless.

Waiting.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

The figure remained partially hidden in shadow.

Impossible to identify.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

The tension felt unbearable.

Finally, the person stepped forward.

Only slightly.

Enough for the light to reach their face.

My breath stopped.

The notebook slipped from my fingers.

Because the woman standing there looked exactly like the portrait.

Exactly like Eleanor.

And impossible as it seemed—

She was alive.