The Hidden Room
Sasha's words were like oil on a burning flame—fueling my desperate need to know everything about my mother. From the way Sasha described her, she didn't sound like the kind of woman who would abandon her family for mere power.
I don't believe my mother left us for ambition. And the most convincing reason for that belief? It's exactly what Amelia keeps insisting. And if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that I don't trust her. Not one bit.
I need to know the truth. It's no longer a curiosity—it has become a necessity.
The pent-up frustration inside me has begun to show in everything I do. It's like there's a storm constantly raging within me, as if I want to tear everything apart just to find peace.
Even my training has become more intense—something even Edward has noticed. He keeps telling me to slow down, to breathe, to take it easy. But his words fall on deaf ears. I can't stop. Not until I find something—anything.
And then there's the room in the basement. The one that holds my mother's belongings. It calls to me, whispering promises of answers. I need to go there. I will go there. Maybe I'll find a piece of her... something to make sense of everything.
Just then, Sasha entered the study. "My lady, the preparations are complete," she said with a smile.
I grinned in return. Let the mission begin.
...
"My lady, the path is clear—come on," Sasha whispered, and I followed, tiptoeing toward our destination.
We were both dressed in clothing like the cleaning maids, our faces covered in makeup. We crept through the halls like two kittens on a hunt—silent, calculated, stealthy.
When we got dressed earlier, I couldn't stop laughing. We looked comical—me and Sasha in oversized maid uniforms, trying to act like spies. But humor aside, I was willing to do whatever it took to reach the truth.
As we moved through a corridor, I spotted a few maids heading our way. I quickly grabbed Sasha's hand, and we ducked behind a pillar, peeking through the glass window for signs of where the maids were going.
"My lady, is it clear?" Sasha whispered.
"Shh!" I hushed her gently, eyes trained on the hallway.
A few tense seconds passed before the coast was clear again. We continued.
We were nearly at the basement stairs when someone suddenly grabbed my arm. I froze, heart racing. I closed my eyes for a second, scrambling for a believable excuse. Sasha looked at me, panic-stricken, but I subtly gestured for her to remain calm.
I turned toward the person who had stopped me and saw a maid dressed like us. Probably another cleaning woman.
I sighed with relief when she didn't recognize us—credit to Sasha's makeup skills.
"What are you two doing here?" the maid asked, finally letting go of my arm.
"We're here for cleaning duty," I replied, nodding. Sasha did the same.
"You're cleaning the basement?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. I nodded again, trying to appear natural.
"Poor girls," she muttered. "Why'd you agree to go down there? Don't you know it's a hellhole? One mistake and you're out of this estate. Stay alert—and one more thing. Don't go near the storeroom."
She shook her head and walked away.
I stood still, stunned. A kind-hearted maid? In this mansion? That's new.
I let the thought go and focused back on the mission. Sasha followed closely behind as we approached the storeroom door. The air around me thickened with emotion—fear, excitement, and longing all at once.
"Sasha, where's the proxy key we made? Hand it over," I said, and she quickly produced it.
Getting this key had taken days of planning. I'd been lurking near Father in secret, watching for when he used the original key. Eventually, I saw him unlock the storeroom—and for a brief moment, he left the key and lock outside as he stepped in.
That was my chance.
I took the key and pressed it into the soft mold Sasha had brought from the locksmiths we'd discreetly contacted. The mold was sent back to them, and soon after, we received a perfect replica.
Now, I slid the key into the lock. With a soft click, the mechanism gave way. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
What I saw made me freeze.
I had expected chaos—a forgotten room filled with broken, dusty things, or worse, the remains of what had been destroyed in a fit of rage. After all, Sasha had once described my father's fury vividly.
But this room was the opposite. It radiated calm. Everything was arranged neatly, almost reverently.
I walked toward a portrait hanging on the wall. A beautiful woman sat gracefully in a chair.
"It's Lady Isabelle," Sasha whispered behind me.
My breath caught.
She was stunning—radiant skin, expressive eyes, and long chestnut-brown hair, just like mine. She looked like a royal princess, elegant in her poise. Even her gown screamed class.
Behind her stood my father—smiling.
Smiling.
His eyes were bright, his jaw sharp, and his face... happy. A happiness I never imagined seeing on him. He looked—dare I say it—gorgeous. Not just physically, but emotionally alive.
Most important of all, he looked like he belonged in that picture. With her.
Tears filled my eyes before I realized I was crying. I tried to stop, but the tears refused. My heart overflowed—with longing, with a need I didn't even know existed.
I longed for a family.
I wiped at my cheeks, but it was no use. I turned to a cupboard and opened it. Inside were her clothes—elegant, untouched. I pulled one dress out and held it close, hoping to feel the warmth of the woman who had once worn it.
One by one, I explored everything—every item that had once belonged to her. They were the only connections I had to a woman I'd come to accept as my mother, without ever knowing why.
She wasn't my real mother. And I wasn't her real daughter.
Yet, some part of me wanted her to be. Some part of me chose to call her that, to feel that connection, to hold onto it.
I clutched her dress that I took out earlier tighter, and the tears kept falling. I didn't know who else was in the room, didn't care if Sasha was judging me or feeling sorry for me.
None of it mattered.
Because at that moment, all I wanted was my mother.
Then, the door creaked open.
I turned and saw Father step inside—fury painted across his face.
But when his eyes landed on me, the anger melted away.
His expression softened.