Two weeks pass in what feels like a strange dream, or maybe a nightmare—I'm not sure which anymore.

During the day, I maintain my routine in the house, acting as though nothing has changed. I wake early, light the fires, prepare breakfast, clean the rooms, serve lunch, mend clothes, prepare dinner. I do everything I've always done, moving through Blackstone Manor like I'm a ghost haunting it, present but not really there.

But on Sundays, for the few hours I'm permitted to be away, I go to the Riverside Cafe.

The woman behind the counter, Sophie, learns my name quickly and always has a warm drink waiting for me. She doesn't ask questions, though I catch her watching me with an expression that seems almost knowing. Sometimes there are newspapers on the tables, and I find myself reading through them with hunger, realizing how little I actually know about the world beyond the gates of my uncle's estate.

Dominic comes each time with documents, photographs, letters. He shows me evidence of my father's existence—birth records, business contracts with Michael Ashford's signature, photographs of a man who looks like he could be my father, with similar features, the same shaped mouth.

"I've been trying to locate him," Dominic tells me during one of these sessions. "It's not easy. He disappeared very thoroughly. But I have contacts, people who help me find things, and they've been following some leads. There's reason to believe he might still be alive, living quietly somewhere outside the country."

The thought of my father being alive, of having a real parent somewhere in the world, is almost too much to process. I've spent eighteen years believing he was weak and absent, unable to care for me. Now I'm being told that he might have been removed from my life deliberately, forcibly.

"Why?" I ask, turning over a photograph of the man. His eyes are kind, I think. They're nothing like Marcus's. "Why would he just... let that happen? Why wouldn't he fight?"

"I don't know yet," Dominic admits. "But I'm going to find out. And Eleanor, I need you to start paying attention. In the house, I mean. I need you to notice things. Where does your uncle spend his time? Who visits him? What conversations do you overhear? Start writing things down, just small details. They might help us understand what he's hiding."

So I begin to spy on my uncle, which feels like an act of betrayal and rebellion simultaneously.

I notice that Marcus's study is often locked, but that there's a window I can see into from the hallway if I angle myself correctly. I watch as he meets with men in expensive suits, men who don't smile, men who seem dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with physical strength. I catch fragments of their conversations: "the artifact," "the contracts," "keeping her contained."

I begin to understand that whatever is happening, it's bigger than just me. There's something else Marcus is hiding, something that requires keeping me in the dark, quite literally.

One night, about three weeks after Dominic's first appearance at the party, I work up the courage to venture into my uncle's study after he's dismissed me for the evening. It's an incredibly risky thing to do—if I'm caught, the punishment will be severe—but something has shifted inside me since I've started learning the truth. I'm tired of being kept in the dark.

The study smells like leather and expensive brandy. The walls are covered with books I'm not sure Marcus has ever read, and there's a massive mahogany desk that faces the windows. I move carefully, my footsteps almost silent on the thick carpet.

There's a painting on the wall behind the desk, a large portrait of a man I recognize from the photographs Dominic showed me. My father. Michael Ashford. Why would Marcus keep a portrait of his estranged brother hidden here, in his private study, unless he wanted no one to see it?

The desk drawers are locked, but the key is in the top right drawer, in plain sight. I tell myself this means Marcus doesn't really believe anyone would be bold enough to investigate, which somehow makes me feel better about doing exactly that.

Inside the drawers, I find files with my name on them. Medical reports. Birth certificates. Custody agreements. And at the bottom, a letter.

It's addressed to me, but unopened. The postmark is from five years ago. My hands shake as I pull it from the envelope, already knowing I shouldn't, already knowing this is something I'm not meant to see.

Dear Eleanor, the letter reads in handwriting I don't recognize,

If you're reading this, it means you've had the courage to question what you've been told, and I'm proud of you for that. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to help you ask those questions. I'm sorry for so many things.

My name is Michael Ashford, and I'm your father.

I don't remember how long I stand there, holding that letter, unable to read further. My hands are numb. My entire body is numb. The letter is real. My father wrote to me. He's alive, or at least was alive five years ago.

Why would Marcus keep this from me?

"Eleanor?"

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of my name. My uncle's voice comes from the doorway, cold and controlled.

I spin around, the letter still in my hands.

Marcus stands there in his evening clothes, a drink in his hand, his expression unreadable. For a moment, we simply stare at each other.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I—" I start, but I can't lie. There's no explanation that makes sense, no excuse that would satisfy him.

"Never mind," Marcus says, setting down his drink and walking toward me. "I already know what happened. Your new friend has been busy, hasn't he? Putting ideas in your head. Telling you stories."

"He showed me the truth," I say, my voice shaking but stronger than I expected. "He showed me that my father is alive. That you kept this from me."

Marcus is close to me now, close enough that I can see the cold calculation in his eyes.

"Dominic showed you one version of the truth," he says softly. "He showed you the version that makes him look noble and righteous. Has he told you why I kept certain information from you? Has he explained what your father did? What your mother did?"

"Tell me," I demand, surprising myself with my own boldness. "Tell me the truth."

Marcus is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Your father was unstable. Brilliant, but unstable. He wanted to dismantle the family business, to give away the money, the power, everything our ancestors built. I tried to stop him, tried to convince him he was making a mistake. But he wouldn't listen. And when I refused to help him destroy everything, when I told him I would protect the family legacy, he became angry. He said he would take you with him, that he would remove you from this house and raise you in poverty rather than let me 'corrupt' you. He said he'd rather you be dead than part of the Ashford name."

Something in me wants to believe this. Some part of me wants Marcus's version to be true, because it's simpler, because it's the story I was raised with.

But I'm beginning to understand that the things we're told are often lies designed to keep us compliant.

"I don't believe you," I say, my voice steady.

Marcus's hand moves so quickly I don't have time to react. He grabs my wrist, his grip tight and painful.

"That's your problem, Eleanor," he hisses. "You're starting to think you have the right to disbelieve me. To question me. To walk into my study and steal from me. Dominic Ashford has filled your head with poison, but he's never told you the most important truth."

"What?" I ask, trying to pull away, failing.

"That some people are born to be greater than others. That some people are meant to lead, meant to acquire, meant to take what they want from the world. And then there are people like you. People who are born to serve. Your father forgot his place. Dominic has never accepted his. And now you're making the same mistake. You're starting to think you deserve something better than what you've been given."

He releases me, and I stumble backward, rubbing at my wrist where his fingers left marks.

"You're going to stay in your room," Marcus continues, walking back toward his desk. "You're not going to leave this house. You're not going to see that boy, and you're not going to ask any more questions about your family. If you do, I will make sure you understand exactly what the consequences are. Not just for you. But for everyone you care about."

"I don't have anyone I care about," I whisper.

"No," Marcus agrees, smiling cruelly. "You don't. Because I've made sure of that. But perhaps I should change my approach."

He pulls out his phone and makes a call. "It's me. Yes, the cafe in Riverside. I want you to destroy it. Make sure there's nothing left standing and nothing worth salvaging. And if anyone's there when you do it, well... accidents happen."

My blood goes ice cold.

"No," I say. "No, please. Sophie—"

"The woman who works there?" Marcus asks, sounding almost casual. "Yes. Unless you cooperate. Unless you accept your place and stop asking questions."

I feel something break inside me. It's the moment when I fully understand that my uncle is willing to destroy everything and everyone around me in order to maintain control. It's the moment I realize that I have to make a choice—not between safety and freedom, but between the life I've been living and the possibility of something more, knowing that everything I touch will be corrupted by Marcus's need for vengeance.

"I'll do what you want," I say, the words tasting like poison.

Marcus nods, satisfied. "Good girl. Now go back to your room. And Eleanor? Throw that letter away. I don't want to see it again."