~LAYLA~
"This is he library," the Duke said as Pennyworth wheeled him through double oak doors. "Three hundred years of accumulated knowledge. Or as Isabelle calls it, ’dusty old books.’"
I stepped inside and stopped.
The room was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. A large fireplace took up one end, and tall windows let in plenty of afternoon light.
"It’s beautiful," I breathed.
"It’s impractical," the Duke countered. "Half these books are in Latin. The other half are about sheep farming. But it photographs well, so Isabelle uses it for her charity luncheons."
I walked to a shelf, running my fingers along the spines. "Did my mother spend ti here?"
"Victoria lived in here," the Duke said softly. "She’d curl up in that window seat for hours, reading poetry. Drove Isabelle mad."
I smiled, imagining it.
"Your Grace," Pennyworth said gently. "I believe it’s ti for your rest. The doctors recomnded..."
"The doctors recommended oatal and bed rest," the Duke interrupted. "I’m ignoring both. But... I am tired. Take back to my room, Arthur."
He looked at . "Will you be alright, Granddaughter?"
"I’ll be fine," I promised.
"Good. Tonight, we’ll have dinner. Just us. No vultures."
—
With Axel gone, the silence of Blackwood Manor changed. It was no longer calm; it now felt dangerous.
Russo, the head of Axel’s security detail, was a shadow at my back. He was a large man with a shaved head and a face that suggested he had seen and caused a lot of violence.
"I’ll be posted right outside your door, ma’am," Russo said as we walked back from the library. "Nobody gets in or out without knowing."
"Thank you, Russo," I said. "But let’s try not to tackle the butler, okay? He’s fragile."
Russo didn’t smile. "If he moves too fast, he goes down."
I left him in the hallway and went into the Blue Room. I felt detached without Axel. My hand instinctively went to my phone to call him, but I stopped myself. He was hunting Charles. He needed focus, not a needy wife.
A soft knock on the door made jump.
Russo’s voice ca through the wood. "It’s the butler, Ma’am."
I opened the door and saw Pennyworth standing there, holding a small brass key on a velvet ribbon.
"Mr. Pennyworth?"
"The Duke is resting," Pennyworth said quietly. "And Lady Isabelle has taken Master Julian to the town to prepare for the ball. The house is empty."
He held out the key.
"I thought you might want to see it," he said. "Before Lady Isabelle finds an excuse to lock it up permanently."
"See what?" I asked, taking the cold and heavy key.
"The West Wing, third door on the left," Pennyworth said. "Your mother’s room."
My breath caught. "Her room? It’s still there?"
"Lady Isabelle wanted it cleared years ago," Pennyworth said. "The Duke refused. He said Victoria would co ho one day. And well... you did."
I stared at the key in my palm. Part of wanted to run there imdiately; part of was terrified of what I’d find.
"Thank you, Arthur," I whispered.
He nodded and left.
I stood there for a mont, feeling the weight of the key. Then I turned to Russo. "I need to go sowhere," I said. "Alone."
"Mrs. O’Brien..."
"You can stand outside the door," I said firmly. "But I need to do this by myself."
Russo studied , then nodded once.
—
The West Wing was colder than the rest of the house. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light cutting through the heavy curtains.
I found the door. When I turned the key, it made a stiff sound and finally gave way.
I pushed the door open and stepped into 1998.
The room slled of stale air and old paper. But underneath that, there was a faint, ghostly scent of vanilla.
It was a teenage girl’s sanctuary. There were posters of bands I vaguely recognised on the walls. A stack of fashion magazines was on the desk. A plush bear on the bed that had been perfectly made and left untouched for twenty-five years.
I walked to the desk, running my fingers over the dust.
My mother lived here. She sat in this chair. She dread in this bed.
I opened the top drawer. It was empty. I opened the second. Empty.
I frowned. Isabelle. She would have purged this room years ago and stripped it of anything personal.
I wasn’t exactly looking for anything, but when my leg hit a loose floorboard near the window seat, I stepped back and looked closer.
It was slightly raised, the wood scuffed.
I knelt and dug my fingernails into the gap. With a groan, the space opened, revealing a metal biscuit tin in the dark hollow beneath.
My heart hamred against my ribs. I pulled it out and sat on the floor, opening the lid.
Letters. Dozens of them.
They were tied with a blue ribbon. I untied it with trembling fingers and picked up the first one. The handwriting was ssy and masculine.
My Dearest V,
I don’t care what your sister says. I didn’t ask your father for a penny. I told him I’d work three jobs if I had to. I told him I just wanted you. But Isabelle was there, whispering in his ear. She told him I had gambling debts. Debts, V! I’ve never placed a bet in my life.
She’s poisoning him against us. She handed a check for fifty thousand pounds and told to disappear. I tore it up in her face.
We have to leave. They won’t let us be happy here.
Forever yours, Michael
I read another. And another.
They weren’t just love letters. They were evidence.
Isabelle hadn’t just disapproved of my parents; she had actively engineered their exile. She had lied to the Duke, telling him my father was a gold digger. She had forged debts. She had tried to pay him off.
Isabelle wasn’t just a snob. She was the villain of my mother’s life.
"You witch," I whispered, clutching the letters. "You stole their life."
I put the letters back in the tin and shoved it back, hiding it again. I wouldn’t take them yet. I would wait for the right mont.
A knock at the door startled .
I quickly stood up, dusting off my knees. "Who is it?"
"It’s , Mrs. O’Brien," Russo called out. "Lady Isabelle is asking for you. She’s outside your room."
"I’m coming," I said.
I locked the door to my mother’s room, pocketing the key. I walked back to the East Wing, my blood boiling with a new, cold anger.
When I reached the Blue Room, Isabelle was waiting. She had a maid with her, who was holding a large, white garnt bag.
"Ah, there you are," Isabelle said with a fake sweetness. "Exploring?"
"Just looking around," I said, keeping my face neutral.
"Well, I co bearing gifts," Isabelle said, gesturing to the maid. "I’m under the impression that you didn’t bring appropriate attire for a ball or a formal presentation, and your husband isn’t here to... advise you. So I took the liberty of pulling sothing from the family archives."
The maid unzipped the bag and revealed a dress... if you could call it that.
It was a monstrosity of white lace, high-necked, long-sleeved, with a skirt that looked like a deflated parachute. It was yellowed with age and slled like a grandmother’s attic.
"It’s tradition," Isabelle narrated. "My mother wore this for her presentation. I wore it for mine. Victoria... would have worn it."
She paused, letting the emotional manipulation sink in.
"It would an so much to the Duke if you wore it, Layla. He loves tradition. And since you want to be part of this family..."
I recognised the trap right away.
If I refused, I was disrespecting the family and the Duke. If I wore it, I would look ridiculous. I would be a laughingstock in front of the press and the elite. I would look like a child playing dress-up in dusty rags.
Isabelle smiled, waiting for to crack or argue.
I looked at the dress. Then I looked at her and smiled back.
"It’s beautiful, Aunt Isabelle," I lied. "Thank you. I would be honoured."
Isabelle blinked, her smile faltering for a second. She hadn’t expected me to agree. "Oh. Well. Good. I’ll have the maid leave it for you."
"Please do," I said.
As soon as they left, I dragged the heavy dress into the room and threw it on the bed.
"Tradition," I muttered.
I pulled out my phone and dialled a number.
"Helena?" I said when my assistant answered. "I need a favour. A big one."
"What do you need, Boss lady?"
"I need a dress," I said, staring at the lace monstrosity. "I need it flown in by tomorrow morning. And not just a dress, Helena. I need a weapon."
"What kind of weapon?"
"The kind that says I own the place," I said. "And send a seamstress. I have a little DIY project for some antique lace."
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