The hallway echoed with silence, the kind that pressed against the chest like a lead weight. Evelyn stood outside the door to the Westbrook estate's private study, her hand raised but hesitant. Beyond it, voices murmured—low, controlled, but laced with tension.
She had received the invitation to "drop by for a private word" from Eleanor Westbrook that morning. The wording was polite, almost warm, but Evelyn knew better. The matriarch of the Westbrook family never wasted words unless they were carefully sharpened blades.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
Inside, Eleanor sat behind the mahogany desk, her posture regal in a tailored navy dress. Beside her, in one of the armchairs, sat Gregory Westbrook—the youngest uncle, eyes cold and appraising. On the far side of the room, near the fireplace, Adrian stood with his arms crossed.
Evelyn's gaze locked with Adrian's for a fleeting second. Something unreadable passed between them, then vanished behind the stoic mask he wore so well.
"Evelyn," Eleanor said, her smile thin and deliberate. "Please, sit."
Evelyn did, folding her hands in her lap.
"I trust you're settling in well," Eleanor continued, but she didn't wait for an answer. "We wanted to have this conversation sooner, but circumstances have made it… inconvenient."
Gregory leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "You've been living here for weeks now, and yet we know very little about you. Other than the scandal with your father and that... rather unusual marriage arrangement."
Evelyn straightened. "I understand your concern, Mr. Westbrook. But I'm not here to make trouble."
"Trouble tends to find people like you," Gregory murmured.
Adrian stepped forward then, jaw tightening. "Enough."
Eleanor raised a hand to stop him. "Adrian, please. Let her speak."
Evelyn looked directly at the woman who had once run the Westbrook dynasty like a queen. "I married your son because we were both cornered into a situation. I didn't come here expecting to be welcomed with open arms, but I have no intention of bringing shame to your family."
Eleanor's eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a glint of curiosity in them now. "You're not what I expected."
"I imagine not."
A pause hung in the air, thick with unspoken things. Finally, Eleanor rose from her chair and walked over to the window, looking out at the distant cliffs.
"You remind me of someone," she said. "Adrian's grandmother. She came from nothing too. The family loathed her at first, until she proved she had more backbone than all the Westbrook men combined."
Evelyn didn't know how to respond to that.
Eleanor turned. "You'll attend the Remembrance Gala with Adrian this weekend. It's a family affair, and your presence will be required. I trust you'll make yourself presentable."
The way she said it didn't leave room for negotiation.
"I will."
Gregory didn't look pleased. "She's not blood."
"She's Westbrook now," Eleanor said coolly, then looked at Evelyn. "And we all bleed, Miss Hart. Even if some of us pretend we don't."
The meeting was over.
Later that evening, Evelyn found herself in the garden maze again, needing air. The wind was sharp with salt from the ocean, and the sky above had begun to threaten rain. She walked along the gravel path, thoughts racing.
She had made it this far—but the deeper she was pulled into the Westbrook world, the more it felt like a trap lined with silk and expectations.
"You handled my mother better than I expected," Adrian said behind her.
Evelyn turned to see him approaching, hands in the pockets of his navy coat. "She tried to scare me."
"She always does." He joined her on the path, eyes scanning the dark hedges. "She respects strength. You gave her just enough."
"I don't need her respect," Evelyn muttered. "Just enough peace to breathe."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the gravel crunching underfoot.
"Why does Gregory hate me so much?" she finally asked.
"He hates anything that threatens the illusion of control," Adrian said. "He's one of the reasons my father was so... careful. Gregory wanted the company for himself."
"And you?"
Adrian glanced at her, then away. "I was the inconvenient son. Not obedient enough. Not ruthless enough. At least not until I had to be."
They reached the center of the maze. A stone bench stood beneath a twisted iron arbor, tangled with moonflowers.
"I used to hide here as a kid," Adrian said, sitting down. "The rest of them were all knives and shadows. I didn't fit."
Evelyn hesitated, then sat beside him. "Maybe you still don't."
He chuckled dryly. "Maybe I never wanted to."
They were quiet again.
"Your mother mentioned the Remembrance Gala," Evelyn said.
Adrian's jaw tightened. "A yearly charade. Everyone shows up in black and diamonds to pretend they care about the family legacy."
"And we're going."
"Yes. And this year, we're expected to smile like we're in love."
Evelyn looked at him, heart fluttering.
"Can you fake that, Adrian?"
He met her gaze. "I don't know. Can you?"
Their eyes locked. The silence between them turned electric—thick with emotion too complex to name. Then a distant rumble of thunder broke the moment.
Adrian stood. "Come on. Before the rain."
Back in her room, Evelyn couldn't sleep. She opened the drawer beside her bed and pulled out the locket her mother had left her—the only thing of value from her childhood.
She turned it over in her hands, tracing the worn initials on the back. M.H.
She had asked her father once, when she was younger. He told her it was just a trinket. But the older she got, the more she questioned it.
Why would her mother leave her this?
A soft knock at the door startled her. She opened it to find Nora, the housekeeper.
"This arrived for you, Miss Evelyn. No sender."
It was a small envelope, cream-colored, sealed in red wax. Evelyn took it and shut the door behind her.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a single piece of parchment, the handwriting elegant and old-fashioned:
"Ask about Marjorie Hart. Not everything you believe is true. — A friend."
Her breath caught.
Marjorie Hart was her mother's name.
But what did it mean?
Who was this friend?
And what, exactly, wasn't true?