Chapter 15

{Hailey’s pov}

After Marcus slipped through the passage and left, I just lay there in my bed, wide awake. Sleep wasn’t coming.

I stared up at the ceiling, the one with the fancy molding and gold edges, and all I could think was how heavy this house felt. Like it was pressing into me. Into my chest. Into my head.

There was something strange about this place. Something alive. The walls hummed with energy. Not loud, but it was there, like the house remembered things I hadn’t even lived through.

George Lachlan didn’t just leave me money. He dropped me into a maze.

And Marcus?

He gave me the first clue.

At dawn, I gave up on sleep, pulled on an oversized sweater, and padded barefoot into the hallway. The place was freezing and dead silent. Even the air felt different. The halls were too big, too wide, and full of shadows that didn’t belong in the morning.

The paintings watched me. The floor creaked like it had something to say. And me? I was just wandering. Not snooping, I told myself. Just walking. Just… touching the wood paneling to feel something real.

Then I noticed him.

Aaron.

He was leaning against the wall, holding a half-eaten scone like it was a weapon. How long had he been following me?

“Why are you just standing there… talking about scones?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“I wasn’t talking to the scone,” he replied, dead serious. “I was insulting it. Lemon. Tragic choice. But I kept the blueberry ones for myself, if you noticed. That’s how deeply I hate you.”

I raised a brow. “You’re not supposed to like me, remember? You’re a Lachlan.”

Aaron smiled, leaning against the wall like he owned the place, probably because, before me, he did. “I do hate you. Deeply. Which is why you got the bad flavor.”

I folded my arms. “This isn’t funny. Everything about this place is twisted.”

Aaron looked at me for a second. Really looked. “Why would I hate you, Hailey?” he asked, softer this time. “You didn’t do this. My grandfather did.”

That… surprised me.

“Maybe you’re innocent. Maybe you’re some evil mastermind,” he added. "But at the end of the day, even if you thought that you’d manipulated our grandfather into this, I guarantee that he’d be the one manipulating you.”

I thought of the letter George left me. Just two words. No explanation.

“You know your grandfather was a piece of work, right?” I said.

Aaron picked up another scone like it was sacred. “In his honor,” he said dramatically, “I eat this scone.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Just a little.

There had to be more to Aaron Lachlan than charm and bad decisions.

“There’s something else,” he said. “This house? It’s not exactly normal. Think of it like a puzzle. A maze. And maybe ‘Where’s Waldo?’ except Waldo’s hiding in your closet.”

“What?” I blinked.

“I mean,” he sighed, “the layout’s insane. Secret doors. Hidden halls. Rooms inside rooms. You’ll see.”

I shook my head. “So you’re saying Lachlan House has a bad blueprint.”

He grinned. “You have a way with words, you know that?”

Eventually, our walking took us toward the west wing. Aaron’s wing.

The air felt heavier here. Quieter. Older. Then I saw a giant portrait of George Lachlan. I’d seen photos of him before, but the painting was different.

He looked… tired. But powerful. His silver hair swept back, his eyes sharp, his jaw stubborn. His eyes looked just like Julian’s. His build? Marcus’s. That chin? Luca’s.

And then there was Aaron. I wouldn’t have seen the resemblance if he weren’t standing beside me, but now I see it. Not in the obvious features, but in something smaller. The way their faces settled. The shadows under the eyes.

“I never met him,” I said quietly. “I’d remember if I had.”

Aaron didn’t move. “Are you sure?”

I turned back to the painting. The same two words from George’s letter echoed in my head like a drumbeat.

I’m sorry.

Something about those words had stuck with me from the beginning.

Not “Congratulations.” Not “Good luck.” Not even “Goodbye.”

Just that. I’m sorry. My throat tightened. My fists clenched. Was there more to all of this than I knew?

Have I met him before?

Had he seen me dancing and known? Had he watched from afar?

Nothing made sense. But somehow, everything in this house, every creak, every portrait, every scone-eating heir, felt like it was trying to tell me something.

And I was finally ready to listen.