Chapter 4: The First Strike
The hallway stretched ahead of them like a silent challenge—lined with gold-trimmed portraits, marble statues, and cold chandeliers that glowed dimly from above. Each portrait seemed to watch her, their painted eyes filled with silent judgment, as though the walls themselves remembered the sins committed here.
She paused for a heartbeat, inhaling the familiar scent of the mansion—cedarwood, aged books… and something sharp beneath it, like betrayal sealed into the very stone.
Dexton noticed.
"You've been here before," he murmured, not asking—but stating.
She nodded once. "When I was a child." Her voice was steady, but her hands tightened around the envelopes. "Before they destroyed everything."
His expression shifted—something protective surfacing behind his calm exterior.
"They won't touch you again," he said quietly.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
They reached a set of tall doors—heavy, dark oak with silver carvings curling across the panels. A family crest sat carved in the center.
Her family's crest.
They had stolen everything—wealth, home, legacy—and twisted it into their own.
Her jaw clenched.
Dexton leaned close, inspecting the door frame. "Trap," he whispered. "A silent alarm. Step through carelessly and the entire estate will lock down."
She exhaled slowly.
"They're paranoid."
"They're guilty," he corrected.
With practiced precision, he disabled the mechanism. The faint click of metal shifting sounded like thunder in the silence.
He stepped back and motioned, "After you."
She pushed the door open just enough to slip through. The room beyond was the private study—a place her father once called the heart of their home.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and hidden compartments. A massive desk sat near the window, overlooking the courtyard. Candlelight flickered gently, illuminating documents scattered across the surface.
And then—her gaze froze.
A large portrait hung behind the desk.
It wasn't of the false owners.
It was of her parents.
Alive. Smiling. Happy.
Her heart twisted painfully.
Dexton stood behind her, silent but present. His gaze flicked between her face and the painting, reading everything she wasn't saying.
"They kept it," he murmured.
"Not because they cared," she replied, voice quiet, controlled. "But because it reminded them of the power they stole."
She forced herself to look away.
On the desk sat a journal bound in black leather—new, but the handwriting on the first page froze her mid-breath.
It was familiar.
Her mother's handwriting.
She reached out, gently touching the ink with her fingertips—as though it might vanish if she wasn't careful.
Dexton studied the pages over her shoulder. "These weren't meant to be found."
"No," she whispered. "Which means they're afraid."
She flipped through the pages. Letters, dates, names—evidence. Enough to tear down reputations, businesses… and lives.
Finally—she reached the last entry.
Her breath caught.
> If you are reading this, my child, then fate has led you home. Know this: trust no one but the shadows… and the one who never left your side.
She froze, pulse hammering.
Slowly, she turned to look at Dexton.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
His expression was unreadable—shadowed… and almost haunted.
Before she could ask—
A sharp voice echoed down the hallway outside.
Footsteps.
Multiple.
Servants? Guards? Or worse—the murderers themselves.
Dexton's hand brushed hers—not grabbing, just anchoring her.
"We move. Now."
She closed the journal and slipped it into her coat. He extinguished the candle with a swift motion.
Darkness swallowed the room—but they moved like they belonged in it.
As they reached the doorway, voices carried closer.
"But dear, why all this paranoia?" a woman said—light, amused, dripping with poison.
"Because," a man answered, "monsters don't stay dead."
The woman laughed softly. "And if she ever returns?"
"She won't."
Silence.
"Because we made sure she couldn't."
Her blood turned to ice.
Dexton's fingers found hers—just briefly, unspoken reassurance.
The footsteps grew closer.
One chance.
One moment.
One beginning.
She let go of fear—and let hatred take its place.
Her voice was a whisper, a promise:
"Tonight, they learn what returns from the shadows."
Dexton's eyes glinted like steel.
"Tonight," he replied, "they meet justice."
The door handle twisted on the other side.
And the first strike began.