MAILAH stared at the bruise for what felt like hours, her fingers hovering inches from the tender purple mark that shouldn't exist.
The bathroom's marble surfaces gleamed coldly around her, reflecting her pale face in fractured pieces. She pressed her palm against the spot, wincing at the sharp ache that shot through her hip.
"It's just a coincidence," she whispered to her reflection, her voice barely audible in the cavernous space. "I must have bumped into something."
But even as she spoke the words, they felt hollow. The bruise was too precise, too perfectly placed where dream-Grayson's motorcycle had thrown her against imaginary pavement.
She traced the edges with trembling fingers, and for a moment, she could almost smell the phantom scent of gasoline and night air.
Stop it. She shook her head violently, causing her dark hair to whip around her shoulders. Dreams don't leave bruises. Dreams don't—
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Mrs. Ashford?" Mrs. Baker's voice carried through the door. "Are you all right in there, dear?"
Mailah quickly pulled on her robe, the silk cool against her heated skin. "I'm fine, Mrs. Baker. Just... taking my time this morning."
"Of course. I've left fresh towels on the bed, and breakfast is ready whenever you are." There was a pause. "Oh, and there's a letter for you. Came by special courier about an hour ago."
A letter? Mailah's heart stuttered. From Grayson, perhaps? An explanation for his sudden departure?
She emerged from the bathroom to find Mrs. Baker arranging pristine white towels on the bed with military precision. The older woman's face was carefully neutral, but Mailah caught something in her expression—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or curiosity.
"Thank you," Mailah said, accepting the cream-colored envelope. Her name was written across the front in elegant script: Mrs. Lailah Ashford. Not Grayson's handwriting.
Mrs. Baker lingered, her hands smoothing invisible wrinkles from the already perfect comforter. "You know, dear, I've been working for the Ashford family for nearly twenty years. I've seen a lot of... unusual things in this house."
Mailah's fingers tightened on the letter. "What kind of unusual things?"
The housekeeper's eyes darted toward the door, as if checking for eavesdroppers. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sounds in the night that can't be explained. Sometimes..." She paused, wringing her hands. "Sometimes I wonder if this house remembers things. Things that happened here long before any of us arrived."
A chill ran down Mailah's spine. "What do you mean?"
But Mrs. Baker was already moving toward the door, her moment of candor apparently over. "Nothing, dear. Just the ramblings of an old woman who's spent too much time in a house full of shadows. Enjoy your breakfast."
Alone again, Mailah tore open the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the same expensive stationary, with a message written in the same elegant script:
My dear Lailah,
I find myself terribly curious about you after our breakfast days ago. Would you care to join me for tea this afternoon? I feel that we have a lot of catching up to do.
Yours in anticipation,
Vivienne Ashford
Mailah's blood turned to ice. Grayson's mother. The woman who had given her such a piercing look at that breakfast, as if she could see straight through Mailah's carefully constructed facade.
She dressed quickly, her mind racing. Why now? Why did Vivienne want to see her when Grayson was safely away on business? And what did she mean by "catching up?
In the dining room, she picked at her breakfast, her appetite nonexistent. The letter lay beside her plate like an accusation.
Through the tall windows, she could see the gardens stretching endlessly toward the tree line, where morning mist clung to the ancient oaks like ghostly fingers.
"Mrs. Baker?" she called when the housekeeper returned to clear the dishes.
"Yes, dear?"
"I was wondering... this house is so old. Have you ever noticed anything... unusual about it? Just... odd things happening?"
Mrs. Baker's hands stilled on the china. For a long moment, she didn't answer. Then: "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, just curious. Houses like this usually have their quirks, don't they? I thought I heard something the other night and wondered if it was just the old pipes or..." Mailah let her voice trail off casually.
The older woman set down the plates with deliberate care. "Mr. Ashford's grandmother used to say that some houses hold more than just memories. That certain places can... amplify things. Emotions. Desires. The barriers between what is and what could be."
"Amplify things? How do you mean?"
"I think," Mrs. Baker said carefully, "that the Ashford family has always been drawn to mysteries. And mysteries, dear, have a way of drawing back."
Before Mailah could ask what she meant, the housekeeper was gone, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts and the growing certainty that nothing in this house was quite what it seemed.
She spent the morning wandering the halls, ostensibly exploring but really searching for... what? Evidence that her dreams were somehow real? Proof that she wasn't losing her mind?
In the library, she wandered between towering shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, their mahogany surfaces gleaming in the filtered afternoon light.
Everything appeared perfectly normal—leather-bound volumes arranged with meticulous care, reading chairs positioned at precise angles, crystal decanters catching the light from tall windows.
She was about to leave when something caught her eye near the entrance. A small brass plaque, tarnished with age, was mounted discretely beside the doorframe. She had to lean close to read the faded engraving:
The Ashford Private CollectionEst. 184787,000 volumes and growing
Mailah stared at the numbers, her mind racing. Eighty-seven thousand books? The library was enormous, yes, but this seemed impossible. She did a quick mental calculation, scanning the visible shelves. Even accounting for the second floor gallery and the sections she couldn't see, there was no way this space could hold nearly that many volumes.
How could one family have collected so many books over the centuries? And more troubling—where were they all?
Her hip throbbed with each step, a constant reminder of the bruise hidden beneath her clothes. She found herself touching the spot unconsciously, as if the pain could somehow unlock the mystery of what was happening to her.
The house itself seemed to be watching her, waiting for her to piece together clues that felt deliberately scattered in her path.
The staff moved through the corridors with unusual quiet, their eyes avoiding hers.
By afternoon, her nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She'd changed clothes three times, settling finally on a soft blue dress. The color brought out her eyes, and she hoped it would help her project the confidence she didn't feel.
She was adjusting the neckline when Mrs. Baker appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral.
"Mrs. Ashford? Your mother-in-law has arrived. She's waiting for you in the sunroom."
Mailah's stomach dropped. "Already? But I thought—"
"She's an early sort, Mrs. Vivienne. Always has been." Mrs. Baker's eyes held a warning. "She's... perceptive. Has been asking questions about you since she arrived."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that don't have easy answers." Mrs. Baker moved closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Be careful, dear. As you already know, Mrs. Vivienne sees things others miss. And she has a way of getting people to reveal more than they intend."
With that ominous warning, Mailah made her way toward the sunroom, her heels clicking against the marble floors like a countdown. Each step brought her closer to a confrontation she wasn't sure she was prepared for.
The sunroom was a breathtaking space, all glass and light, with exotic plants cascading from every surface.
Vivienne Ashford sat in a high-backed wicker chair, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her sharp blue eyes fixed on the doorway as if she'd been waiting for this moment her entire life.
"Lailah," she said, her voice carrying the crisp authority of old money and older secrets. "How lovely to see you again. Please, sit. We have so much to discuss."
Mailah approached on unsteady legs, her heart hammering against her ribs.
As she settled into the chair across from her mother-in-law, she couldn't shake the feeling that this conversation would change everything.
Vivienne's smile was sharp as a blade. "I must say, you look different than I expected. Tell me, dear—how long have you been pretending to be my daughter-in-law?"
The question struck Mailah hard, as if someone had knocked the breath from her lungs. Her carefully constructed world tilted dangerously, and she realized with crystalline clarity that her masquerade might be about to come crashing down around her.
"I... I don't understand what you mean," she managed, her voice barely steady.
Vivienne's laugh was like silver bells tinged with ice. "Oh, my dear girl. I think you understand perfectly. The question is—what are we going to do about it?"