The Dark Heir

Celline

That afternoon, sunlight streamed sharply into Brandon's office. He stared at his laptop screen without blinking, his brow furrowed for the past ten minutes.

The email was short. Too short for something called autopsy results.

Brandon shifted in his chair, rereading line after line filled with unfamiliar medical terms.

"What does this mean?" he muttered.

The door opened without a knock.

"You're still here?" Maxel's voice was calm, but his eyes were alert. "You should have had lunch by now."

Brandon slowly closed his laptop. "I'm not hungry yet."

Maxel stepped inside. "You've been acting strange since Eleanor's death."

"You've only just noticed. I've been strange for a long time."

"I'm asking nicely," said Maxel. "I'm not attacking you."

Brandon leaned back in his chair. "Then don't ask me irrelevant questions."

Maxel smiled slightly. "Did you hear anything from the hospital?"

"No."

Maxel's gaze sharpened. "Are you sure?"

"Why?" Brandon replied.

"The autopsy results came out today, right?"

"So?"

Maxel took a step closer. "Then why do you look like you've just discovered something terrible?"

Brandon stared at him blankly. "Because my grandmother died under the roof of our own house. Isn't that bad enough?"

Maxel was silent, then said more quietly, "You suspect someone."

"That's none of your business."

"I'm your mother's husband," Maxel said firmly.

Brandon smiled crookedly. "And still not Hartwell."

The air in the room thickened.

"You can't keep pushing me away," Maxel said coldly. "Whatever you're planning."

"I'm not planning anything," Brandon replied. "I'm waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"A direct explanation."

Maxel sighed. "When?"

"This afternoon. The doctor wants me to go to the hospital."

Maxel paused for a moment, then said, "I'm coming with you."

Brandon turned sharply. "No."

"This concerns the death of my father-in-law—"

"—my grandmother," Brandon interrupted. "And I'm responsible."

"You have no right to forbid me."

"I have the right to decide who comes," Brandon replied coldly. "And who doesn't."

Silence hung between them.

Finally, Maxel said softly, "Are you afraid I know something?"

Brandon stared at him for a long time. "I'm afraid you'll act before I understand what really happened."

Maxel smiled slightly, but his eyes were dark. "All right. We'll go to the hospital this afternoon."

"We?" Brandon raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not asking for permission," Maxel replied. "I'm just informing you."

Brandon didn't answer. He sat back down and opened his laptop again after Maxel left the room.

The email was still open.

The unfamiliar words were still the same, unchanged.

And for some reason, his bad feeling grew stronger.

It was as if the contents of the email were not just a death report, but a door to something he was not ready to face.

The hospital corridor began to quiet down as the clock struck six in the evening. White lights reflected coldly on the shiny floor.

Brandon sat with his back straight. Maxel stood near the window, staring out without really seeing anything.

"It's been half an hour," said Maxel.

"The doctor said this afternoon," Brandon replied briefly.

"It's already evening."

"Not yet."

Maxel glanced at his watch. "Are you sure he's coming?"

"He's the one who asked for the meeting."

"And you just believe him?"

Brandon turned his head. "Why not?"

A nurse passed by. Brandon immediately stood up.

"Excuse me," he said, "the forensic doctor who performed the autopsy on Eleanor Hartwell—"

"Dr Dith?" interrupted the nurse. "He's not here yet."

"Not yet?" Maxel frowned.

"He hasn't started his afternoon shift yet," replied the nurse. "We haven't been able to contact him either."

Brandon clenched his jaw. "He hasn't arrived at all?"

"No, sir."

The nurse left, leaving the air feeling even heavier.

"You heard it yourself," said Maxel. "The doctor isn't coming, maybe he doesn't want to reveal the autopsy results."

"You'd better keep quiet!"

**

The gates of Hartwell Palace opened without a welcome.

No Brandon. No Maxel.

Just a big house that was too quiet.

Teresa stepped inside first, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. She didn't stop in the living room. She didn't look at the Hartwell family portrait on the wall.

"Follow me," she said briefly.

Celline obeyed, though her expression clearly showed her hesitation. "They're not here?"

"It doesn't matter," replied Teresa. "We're not here for them."

A servant appeared. "A room for Miss Celline—"

"The one in the east wing," Teresa interrupted. "Next to Brandon's room."

The servant paused. “That’s… the main family room.”

“That’s right,” Teresa said flatly. “He’s family.”

Without waiting for approval, Teresa headed for the stairs. Celline followed, her steps slow, her eyes scanning the long, unfamiliar corridors.

“Why here?” Celline whispered.

"Because distance is important," Teresa replied. "Too close causes suspicion. Too far makes you forget."

They stopped in front of two adjacent doors.

Teresa opened the left door. "This is your room."

Celline entered slowly. The room was large, tidy, and clearly rarely used. A tall window faced the back garden. The door next to it was tightly closed.

"Who's in there?" asked Celline.

"Brandon's room," replied Teresa.

Celline turned quickly. "I've never met him."

"No need to now."

"Then why—"

"Because the best encounters," Teresa interrupted, "always happen when they're unplanned."

Celline looked at her mother. "What are you making me?"

Teresa smoothed her daughter's shirt collar. "Part of this house."

"That's not an answer."

Teresa smiled slightly. "It's the only answer you need to know."

Teresa left the room.

Celline opened her suitcase slowly, as if afraid the house would hear her.

The clothes were neatly folded, the books placed on the shelves, but her hands trembled every time she touched the expensive furniture that didn't feel like hers. The room was too big. Too clean. Too... not a home.

"I don't want to be here," she muttered softly.

But the suitcase remained empty, little by little.

She remembered Teresa's face—hard, calculating, but also the only hand that had ever carried her. Since she was a baby. Since she was found wrapped in a thin cloth in front of an empty orphanage. Abandoned. Unwanted.

Teresa found her. Teresa gave her a name. Teresa took her to school, took care of her, took on everything.

"I owe her," whispered Celline.

That was why she was here.

She closed the last drawer when she heard the sound.

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Approaching.

Celline tensed. Her heart beat faster. She turned to the door, holding her breath. The footsteps stopped right in front of the next room—or maybe... in front of her door.

She stood frozen, her hands still clutching the suitcase handle.

This is his house, Celline thought. Not mine.

She heard a key turn in the door next door. The door opened. Then closed again. The thin wall felt closer and closer, pressing down on her.

Celline swallowed.

"I didn't do anything," she muttered, to no one in particular.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her back straight, as if waiting for a sentence to be handed down. The footsteps moved again—this time moving away a little, then stopping.

Silence fell once more. But the feeling of being watched did not go away.

Celline hugged her bag, the only thing that felt truly hers. She stared at the door, aware that from this moment on, her life had been placed between two things she hadn't chosen: the Hartwell house and Teresa's plan.

And behind the wall next door, someone she didn't know at all.

Before her fear had a chance to fade, she was startled again by a knock on her bedroom window.