Chapter 6 Whispers In The Red Room

The storm hadn't stopped. It raged for hours, washing the Blackthorne estate in thunder and madness. Lightning cracked across the sky like it wanted to tear it open. Inside, everything was dim and cold - and yet Veronica's skin was hot, flushed with confusion, shame, and the kind of longing that felt more like a sickness.

She hadn't left her room since that moment.

That kiss.

Aiden had touched her like he'd waited years to do it. His hands hadn't trembled. His breath had been steady. And the worst part - the part that kept her awake - was that hers hadn't faltered either.

She'd wanted it.

God, she still wanted more.

She pressed her palms into her eyes. "Stop thinking about it," she hissed to herself. "Stop being so weak."

A knock came. Soft. Controlled. As if the person on the other side already knew they weren't welcome.

She stood without answering. Her bare feet brushed over the cold marble as she walked to the door.

When she opened it, Raymond Blackthorne stood in the hallway, his hands clasped behind his back. Aiden's father. Her stepfather. The man who always smiled too perfectly and looked at her like he was watching a bomb that might explode at any moment.

"Veronica," he said with that gentle voice that somehow always felt like a warning. "Come with me. There's something you need to see."

She blinked. "Now?"

He nodded once. "Now."

They walked in silence through the eastern corridor. The walls here were lined with paintings - but not the glamorous portraits that filled the main halls. These were darker. Abstract. Wild. Screams frozen in oil and canvas.

Veronica had always hated this part of the house.

Raymond paused in front of a double door made of blood-red wood. No one ever entered the Red Room. It was locked, silent, forbidden. She hadn't been inside since she was a child.

He pulled out a brass key and unlocked it.

"Go on," he said.

She hesitated. "What is this?"

"Closure."

The doors creaked open.

The Red Room was dust-covered and untouched. Velvet furniture sat beneath white sheets. Chandeliers hung like cobwebs made of crystal. And in the center of it all, stood a grand piano - open, with one single black key cracked.

But what pulled Veronica's eyes wasn't the piano. It was the painting above it.

A woman.

Her face was pale, delicate. Her eyes sharp but haunting. Her features looked...familiar.

Too familiar.

"Elara," she whispered.

"Yes," Raymond said, stepping beside her. "Your real mother."

Her breath caught.

It was her. The same woman from the journal. The name that made Charlotte tense. The name no one dared say.

Raymond moved to a side table and opened a small black box. Inside, a string of pearls sat next to an old photograph. He handed it to Veronica.

In the photo, Elara stood in a garden, holding a baby. Her eyes weren't haunted there. They were soft. Gentle. Hopeful.

"That's you," he said. "Before she was taken from us."

"I don't understand," Veronica said, her voice cracking. "Why are you showing me this now?"

He looked at her, and for once, the performative kindness in his face vanished.

"Because secrets rot people, Veronica. They turn them into ghosts. And the Blackthornes are full of them."

That night, Veronica sat on her bed, the photograph pressed against her chest.

Her mother had a face now. A name. A voice that whispered from the grave. And suddenly, the pieces began to click.

Why Charlotte hated her.

Why she'd never allowed Elara's name in the house.

Why Aiden had looked at her like he'd seen a ghost when she first arrived.

She wasn't just a stepdaughter. She was the buried scandal. The unwanted sin.

Her phone buzzed.

Aiden: Come to the greenhouse. Now. Don't tell anyone.

The air in the greenhouse was thick with humidity and the scent of jasmine and dying roses.

Veronica entered, shivering in her thin robe. Aiden stood at the far end, shirtless, his chest marked with bruises - fresh and violent.

"What happened to you?" she asked, rushing forward.

He didn't answer. Just turned to her with eyes darker than she'd ever seen.

"You need to listen," he said. "There are things I should've told you before. Things I kept buried because I thought it would protect you."

Her throat tightened. "What things?"

"Elara didn't just die," he said slowly. "She was killed."

Veronica's heart slammed.

"What?"

"Charlotte hated her," Aiden continued. "Because Raymond loved her. Because Elara was supposed to be his real wife. You were supposed to be his only child. But Charlotte found out and..."

He stopped.

Veronica couldn't breathe.

"She murdered her?"

He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no.

"Why are you telling me this now?" she whispered.

"Because someone's trying to erase her memory," Aiden said, stepping closer. "I think they're going to come after you next."

They stood in silence. Just the sound of dripping water and the wind rattling the glass panes.

"I can't be here," Veronica muttered, panic crawling up her spine. "I can't live in this house knowing what they did to her."

"You can," Aiden said, placing his hand on her cheek. "Because you're the only one who can uncover the truth."

Her lips trembled. "What if it breaks me?"

He leaned in, his breath brushing against hers. "Then I'll break with you."

Their lips met again. This time slower. Deeper. More dangerous.

They shouldn't be doing this. Not with blood and secrets between them. Not when the house itself was watching.

But Veronica didn't pull away.

She wanted to drown in him. To forget everything.

For just one moment.

Later, she sat alone in her room, flipping through the final pages of Elara's journal.

She reached a sentence she hadn't seen before. Maybe she'd missed it. Maybe it had been added somehow.

"If you find this, my daughter - know this: there is a truth in this house that can kill. But if you're brave enough, it can also set us free."

Underneath it, a date.

And a name she didn't recognize.

Lucian Graves.

At midnight, the power went out.

The halls were swallowed by darkness.

And somewhere down the eastern wing, a scream shattered the silence.