chapter 8
736 Words
Chapter Eight
Secrets in the Shadows
The west wing was silent. Too silent.
Sienna stood barefoot in the hallway, holding her breath as she stared at the piano room’s heavy oak doors. The letter from Dante was folded tightly in her pocket like a lifeline. She hadn’t slept—not with Eleanor’s chilling stare still burned into her memory and Damien’s warning echoing in her ears.
But she needed answers.
Her fingers hovered over the door handle.
Locked.
Of course.
She pulled a silver hairpin from her bun, heart racing. Her fingers were shaky, but after years of sneaking into rooms her father never wanted her in, she wasn’t a stranger to lock-picking.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting eerie patterns on the grand piano in the center of the room. Dust floated in the air like tiny ghosts.
She stepped inside.
There it was—an old, carved piano with gold detailing.
She ran her hands along the keys. Silent. Dead.
Then she saw it.
At the very bottom, where the wood met the floor… a slit. Barely visible.
She dropped to her knees, running her fingers along the seam.
A hidden compartment.
She pushed gently—click.
A panel popped open.
Inside was a red box, just like Dante’s letter said.
She reached for it—then froze.
“Step away from it.”
Damien’s voice.
Low. Cold. Closer than she expected.
Her breath caught in her throat as she turned to face him.
He stood in the doorway, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept either.
“Damien…”
“I told you not to come here.”
“I had to.”
She held up the letter. “He left this for me. Don’t you want to know why?”
His jaw clenched. “No.”
“Why are you so scared of the truth?”
“I’m not scared,” he growled. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?” she snapped. “From her? From this family?”
“From making the same mistake he did.”
That silenced her.
She stared at him, searching his eyes.
“He was your brother,” she said softly.
“And you think that means I didn’t watch him lose his mind over secrets this family buried?”
He crossed the room slowly, eyes locked on hers.
“He found something in that box,” Damien said. “Something that ruined him.”
Sienna held the box tighter.
“I’m not him,” she whispered.
He stopped in front of her.
“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”
His eyes dropped to her lips. Just for a moment.
Her heart thudded.
Was he going to kiss her?
She tilted her chin, just slightly.
But he turned away.
Of course he did.
“I’ll keep the box,” he muttered. “You don’t want what’s inside.”
“I do,” she said quietly.
“I know.” His voice softened, almost like an apology. “And that’s what terrifies me.”
---
Later that night…
Sienna lay awake in her room, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers tingled from where he’d touched her wrist while taking the box. A gentle brush—intentional or not, it lingered.
He wasn’t just cold.
He was afraid.
Not for himself. For her.
But why?
A soft knock tapped on her door.
She jumped.
Slipping out of bed, she opened it—only to find nothing but a small envelope on the floor.
No name. Just her.
Inside was a photo.
Her mother… with Dante.
Not her father. Dante.
Her breath caught.
On the back of the photo were words scrawled in rushed handwriting.
“You don’t know who you are.”
---
Meanwhile…
Damien sat in the piano room alone, holding the red box.
He hadn’t opened it in years.
Not since the night Dante died.
He ran a hand through his hair and set it on the table.
Inside was a series of documents, newspaper clippings, and one letter.
A name circled in red ink.
Annabelle Ross.
Sienna’s mother.
Damien exhaled shakily.
“Why her?” he whispered to the darkness.
He reached into the box and pulled out a small necklace—silver, with a broken locket.
Inside the locket was a photo of a baby.
And another name.
S. Westwood.
- Writer
