Mariluna gripped the note so tightly it crumpled beneath her fingers, the edges digging into her palm. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she read the words again, trying to make sense of them.
"Your father's sins are not buried. They're just waiting for the right daughter to dig them up." —V
The ink still smelled faintly of fresh print.
Her gaze flicked to the door. Locked. No windows had been opened. No footsteps echoed in the hall before this appeared. Whoever left it behind had done so without a trace.
Who the hell is V?
She flipped the paper over. Blank. But something about it felt heavier than mere words. A thread had been pulled loose, one knotted deep in her father's past, and it was starting to unravel right in her hands.
The secrets David had hinted at weren't abstract anymore. They were here. In her room. Watching her. Waiting.
She folded the note and tucked it beneath her pillow.
Whatever Lorenzo believed this arrangement to be, she wasn't going to sit quietly and play the obedient wife. Not anymore. Not when the shadows were closing in.
Downstairs, the mansion stirred in muted motion. The staff moved like shadows, maids gliding across polished floors, guards stationed by each exit in stiff, silent alertness. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a fortress wrapped in velvet and gold.
She wandered through the East Wing, eyes flicking toward every camera, every blind corner. The air hummed with surveillance. If she wanted any hope of surviving this place, or escaping it, she needed to understand the depth of her prison.
Learn the walls before you find the cracks.
Her feet led her back to the library. The only space that didn't feel like it was choking her. The scent of leather-bound books and aged paper brought a strange calm, though it did little to ease the storm in her chest.
Her eyes drifted again to the painting, Verena Rossi.
There was something haunting about the way the woman stood with her back turned, shoulders drawn as if burdened by secrets. Mariluna approached slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the frame.
She tapped lightly at the corners. Nothing.
Tried lifting it. Still nothing.
But just beneath the bottom edge, her nail caught a groove, thin, almost invisible.
She pressed it.
A soft click sounded.
Her breath caught.
The bookshelf shifted with a quiet creak, revealing a narrow passage hidden behind the wall.
Dark. Silent. Undisturbed.
Go back, her mind whispered.
But her body was already moving.
She stepped inside, and the door sealed itself with a muted hiss, leaving her swallowed by blackness.
Each step echoed slightly as she walked forward, heart hammering harder with every stride. The passage led to a narrow stone staircase that spiraled downward, the air growing colder and damper as she descended. Somewhere below, water dripped in a slow, rhythmic tap.
At the bottom was a door.
She pushed it open.
The room beyond was small, dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were cluttered, photographs pinned at odd angles, newspaper articles yellowed with age, letters scrawled in different inks. Maps stretched across one side, littered with red markings and tiny scribbles.
But in the center sat a table. And on it, a leather-bound journal, thick and cracked with age.
Her father's name stamped across the cover:
Sebastian Valez
Her hands trembled as she reached for it.
Inside were pages of secrets, some in code, others bluntly named. Lists of people she'd never met. Offshore accounts. Notes about meetings with foreign investors. There were names of politicians, private security firms, and cryptic references to old deals.
One page, though, hit like a blow to the chest.
Written hastily, almost like a warning:
"He knows. Rossi knows. If anything happens to me, protect her. The girl knows nothing. Keep her blind." S.V.
She sank slowly to the floor, the journal still in her lap. Her legs couldn't hold her anymore.
Lorenzo had known. All along.
He hadn't just plucked her out of nowhere, he'd been watching her. Preparing her for something. Maybe even using her.
Why didn't he tell me?
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Her head whipped around.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching her with unreadable eyes.
"You shouldn't be down here," he said, his voice low but calm.
She stood, slow and unsteady, hands clenched. "You lied to me."
"I didn't lie," he replied evenly. "I just didn't tell you everything."
"You used me."
"I protected you."
Her voice broke. "You bought me like a damn possession."
His jaw tensed. "I took you to stop them from getting to you first. If I hadn't, your uncle would've sold you off to men far worse than me. Men who don't give warnings. Men who don't care what you're worth once they've broken you."
She stared at him, throat tight, voice barely above a whisper. "And what makes you different?"
He stepped toward her, measured and slow, as if approaching something fragile.
"I don't hurt what I plan to keep."
Her breath hitched.
"Why me?" she whispered. "You could've left me. You should've."
He was in front of her now, closer than she wanted, and yet somehow not close enough to hurt her.
His hand reached up, brushing her cheek lightly. No pressure. Just warmth.
"When I found out who you were," he said, "I thought you could help finish what your father started. I thought I could use you."
Her eyes burned.
"But now…" he paused, voice quieter, "you're not a weapon anymore. You're a weakness."
Before she could speak, the lights above them flickered.
Then darkness.
The door slammed shut behind them with a thunderous bang.
Lorenzo turned sharply, reaching for his phone, but the screen stayed black. No signal. No light.
From the vents above, a voice drifted down, low and cold:
"You shouldn't have taken her, Lorenzo. Now you'll both burn."
Mariluna's blood ran cold.
They'd found her.