Elara's POV
The red envelope sat on my kitchen counter like a poisonous snake.
I didn't need to open it. I already knew what it said. Pay £1,200 in three days or get out. My hands shook as I stared at the words through the thin paper. Three days. Seventy-two hours to find money I didn't have.
I crumpled the notice and threw it across my tiny apartment. It bounced off the wall and landed near my broken radiator. Perfect. Just perfect.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it, hoping—praying—it was the job I'd applied for last week. Instead, Marcus's face smiled at me from the screen. My ex-fiancé. The man who destroyed my life three months ago.
It was just a Facebook notification. Someone had tagged him in a photo from Barcelona. Barcelona! While I was here, starving, he was on vacation with my money.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall. Instead, I sat down on my lumpy couch and let the memories crash over me like a wave.
Three months ago, everything was different. I had a good job at Henderson & Associates. I had savings—£15,000 that I'd worked six years to build. I had Marcus, who kissed me every morning and promised we'd get married in the spring.
Then it all fell apart.
"Elara, we need to talk." My boss, Mr. Henderson, had called me into his office. His face was red with anger. "£10,000 is missing from the company account. And all the transfers point to you."
"What? That's impossible! I didn't—"
"We have the evidence. Your computer. Your password. Your bank account received the money."
But it wasn't my bank account. It was a fake one Marcus had created using my information. I found out later—too late—that he'd been planning this for months. He stole from the company and made it look like I did it. Then he took all my savings and vanished.
The police said they were investigating. That was three months ago. I hadn't heard from them since.
I lost my job. My reputation. My apartment—the nice one I'd loved. Everything.
Now I lived in this dump in East London, where the ceiling leaked and mice scratched in the walls at night. I worked double shifts at Mario's Café, a greasy place where the owner yelled at me and the customers treated me like dirt. I earned barely enough for food. Forget about rent.
My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning—a stale muffin someone left at the café.
I checked my bank account on my phone. £43.27. That was it. Everything I had in the world.
A sob caught in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I'd cried enough. Crying didn't pay rent. Crying didn't bring back what Marcus stole. Crying didn't fix anything.
I needed a plan. I could ask Mira for money, but she'd already lent me £200 last month that I couldn't pay back. I could sell my laptop, but it was barely worth £50. I could—
Someone knocked on my door.
My heart jumped. The landlord? No, he always just slipped notices under the door. Debt collectors? My stomach twisted.
The knock came again. Loud. Confident. Definitely not friendly.
I crept to the door and looked through the peephole. A man in an expensive black suit stood in the hallway. He was older, maybe sixty, with gray hair and sharp eyes. He looked completely out of place in this run-down building.
"Miss Thornwood?" His voice was calm, educated. "I know you're there. I can hear you breathing."
How did he know my name?
"Go away!" I called through the door. "I don't have any money!"
"I'm not here for money, Miss Thornwood. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm here to give you something."
A scam. Had to be. Nobody gave away free money.
"I'm Thomas Greyson," the man continued. "I'm a lawyer. I represent your family's estate. I have information about your inheritance."
Inheritance? My parents died ten years ago. There was no inheritance. Everything burned in the fire that killed them.
"You have the wrong person," I said.
"Elara Thornwood, age twenty-seven, daughter of Helena and Marcus Thornwood. Born at Thornwood Manor in Yorkshire. Is that you?"
My breath caught. Nobody knew about the manor. Nobody talked about it. After my parents died, I'd been sent to live with my aunt in London. The manor burned to the ground. There was nothing left.
"The manor's gone," I whispered.
"On the contrary, Miss Thornwood. It's very much intact. And as of yesterday, it's legally yours."
I yanked open the door. "That's impossible. I saw it burn. I was there!"
Thomas Greyson smiled sadly. He held out a folder. "Sometimes things aren't what they seem. May I come in?"
I should have said no. Should have slammed the door in his face. But the folder in his hands was thick and official-looking, and I was desperate enough to believe in impossible things.
I let him in.
He sat on my couch like he didn't notice the springs poking through or the stains on the cushions. He opened the folder and pulled out photographs.
My heart stopped.
Thornwood Manor. My childhood home. Standing perfect and whole, its stone towers reaching toward a gray sky. The gardens I'd played in. The windows I'd looked out from. Everything exactly as I remembered.
"But... how?"
"That's complicated," Thomas said. "What matters is this: the manor is yours. Along with a trust fund worth £500,000."
The room spun. Half a million pounds? It couldn't be real.
"There is one condition," Thomas continued, his eyes suddenly intense. "You must return to the manor. You must live there for at least thirty days. And..." He paused. "You must accept what you find there."
"What does that mean?"
"It means some things that died aren't actually dead, Miss Thornwood. Some things have been waiting a very long time for you to come home."
A chill ran down my spine. "What things?"
Thomas stood and handed me the folder. "You have three days to decide. The manor or the streets. Choose wisely."
He walked to my door, then turned back. His face was grim.
"One more thing. Whatever you do, don't mention this to anyone. Especially not family. There are people who would kill to keep you away from that manor."
Before I could ask what he meant, he was gone.
I stood frozen, holding the folder, staring at the impossible photographs of my impossible inheritance.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I answered without thinking. "Hello?"
Heavy breathing on the other end. Then a voice I'd never heard before—cold, wrong, like something pretending to be human.
"Stay away from Thornwood Manor, little girl. Or what happened to your parents will happen to you."
The line went dead.