Chapter 2 The Letter from the Past

The envelope sat unopened on Elena's coffee table all night, glowing faintly under the flickering city lights. She couldn't bring herself to move it, let alone open it again. It wasn't just paper; it was an invitation to a world that had haunted her since she uncovered her mother's hidden signature. A world she swore she'd never belong to.

By dawn, her decision felt like a storm she couldn't stop.

She packed lightly, gloves, brushes, solvent, notebook tools that grounded her, that reminded her she was still Elena Cruz, the art restorer, not some phantom tied to a billionaire's bloodline.

As the taxi wove through the pale morning, the city faded behind her. The road north grew lonelier, bending through thick forests where mist curled like breath. Every mile toward Blackstone Manor felt like peeling another layer off her life, exposing nerves she didn't know she had.

When the iron gates appeared through the fog, they were exactly as she'd imagined: tall, ornate, and unwelcoming. At their center gleamed the Devereux crest: a serpent coiled around a rose, fangs hidden by petals.

The guard recognized her name before she said it. Welcome to Blackstone, Miss Cruz. Mrs. Devereux and Mr. Damian are expecting you.

Expecting me. The words carried too much weight.

The car rolled through the gates, tires crunching over gravel as the estate revealed itself: an architectural ghost of stone and ivy sprawling over the cliffs. The sea thundered below, waves crashing into the rocks as if trying to reclaim what humans had stolen. The air smelled of salt and secrets.

When the car stopped, a figure was already waiting on the steps, tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed. Damian Devereux.

Elena's pulse faltered.

In photographs, he looked polished, untouchable. In person, he radiated something else entirely: a quiet gravity that bent the air around him. His gray eyes studied her not as a stranger, but as a question.

Miss Cruz, he said finally, his tone low and even. I appreciate you accepting my mother's invitation.

Elena forced a professional smile. The opportunity was unexpected. But I'm honored.

Are you? The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. Most people hesitate before walking into Blackstone.

I'm not most people.

He looked as though that intrigued him. So I've heard.

A pause lingered heavy, charged. Then he turned toward the massive doors. Come inside. There's something I'd like you to see before you start.

The entrance hall was a cathedral of memory. Oil portraits lined the walls, stern men and graceful women staring from centuries past. Chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors polished to mirror shine. It was beauty built to intimidate.

This house, Damian said quietly, has been in my family for four generations. Every painting here was commissioned to preserve the Devereux legacy.

And your father's portrait? Elena asked, noticing an empty frame above the grand staircase.

Removed. His voice cooled. My mother prefers not to display ghosts.

Elena's gaze lingered on the vacant space. Not to display, she thought, as if hiding the dead could erase them.

He led her through a side corridor into a smaller, dimly lit room. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light. An easel stood in the center, draped in a white cloth.

This was found in one of the sealed storage rooms last week," Damian said. "My mother believes it's one of my father's early commissions. We'd like you to restore it.

He lifted the cloth.

Elena froze. Beneath the yellowed varnish was a portrait of a woman, dark-haired, serene, her eyes hauntingly familiar. The brushwork, the soft blending of tones, was the same signature style that had drawn her to art in the first place.

It was María Cruz.

Her mother. Her throat closed. She took an involuntary step forward, heart hammering against her ribs. Where did you find this?

In the West Wing archives. It wasn't catalogued. Damian studied her reaction. Do you recognize the subject?

Elena hesitated. She looks familiar. Her voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone pretending not to fall apart.

Damian nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself. Then you'll understand why we need someone with care to restore it. My mother wants it ready for display in a private collection.

Your mother wants this restored? Elena's disbelief slipped through before she could stop it.

Yes.

A shadow crossed his face. She said some legacies deserve to be remembered, even the painful ones.

The words hung between them. Elena forced herself to focus on the technical: lighting, canvas condition, pigment decay, anything but the realization that her mother's face now hung in the house of the man who might share her blood.

Damian watched her work with quiet interest. Tell me, he said after a long silence, why does someone choose to spend their life fixing the past instead of painting something new?

She looked up, meeting his gaze. Because not everything broken needs to be replaced. Some things just need someone willing to see what's still there.

His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. That's an unusual answer.

It's the truth.

By afternoon, she had set up her tools. The room was silent except for the soft scrape of her brush lifting centuries of grime. As the hidden layers of color emerged, so did her mother's expression, tender, almost secretive.

Elena's hands trembled.

In the faint light, she noticed something at the edge of the canvas, an indentation, small but deliberate. She leaned closer. Someone had pressed a seal into the wet paint before it dried, a symbol shaped like a serpent and rose.

The Devereux crest.

But the strangest part was beneath it: faint letters scratched by a trembling hand.

For E. D., forgive me.

Her breath caught. "E.D."

Eleanor Devereux.

The name she'd seen on that faded death certificate.

A chill rippled down her spine. It couldn't be a coincidence that the portrait, the crest, and the signature beneath the paint are decades old.

She felt watched.

"Elena?"

She turned. Damian stood in the doorway, his tie loosened, eyes darker than before. You've been here for hours.

I lose track of time when I work, she said, swallowing her panic.

He studied her face. There's something about this painting that unsettles you.

It's powerful, she managed. You can feel the emotion in it.

He stepped closer, his voice low. You look pale. You should rest. We have guest rooms prepared.

I'm fine, she lied.

Rest anyway. He turned toward the hall, then paused. The house has a way of getting inside your head if you stay too long.

When he left, she exhaled shakily. The house was already in her head, whispering through walls, breathing through portraits.

That night, sleep didn't come easily. The guest room overlooked the cliffs; moonlight reflected off the waves below like scattered glass. Somewhere distant, an old grandfather clock marked the hours like a warning.

At midnight, something slid under her door, soft and deliberate. A letter.

Elena sat up, heart pounding. The envelope was old, its edges yellowed. Her name, Elena, was written in delicate cursive ink, fading but legible. She opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside, a single page.

If you're reading this, you've come back to where you belong. They told me you were gone, but I knew better. One day, you'd find your way home through art, through memory, through blood. Forgive me for what I couldn't protect. The truth is hidden where the light first fell upon you. M.

The signature: M.

María.

Tears welled in Elena's eyes. Her mother had written this. But how had it found its way here decades later?

She scanned the line again: Where the light first fell upon you.

Her mind flicked through images of hospital lights, sunlight through studio windows, the skylight at the Metropolitan Restoration Wing. None of it made sense.

Unless her mother meant something else, a place here, inside Blackstone Manor.

She folded the letter, her pulse racing. Someone knew who she was. Someone wanted her to uncover the truth or lure her into it.

The floor creaked outside her door. Elena froze, clutching the letter. A shadow passed beneath the crack of light. Then a voice, quiet, uncertain.

Miss Cruz?

Damian.

She opened the door halfway. He stood there barefoot, wearing a dark shirt, the faintest vulnerability breaking through his usual composure.

Couldn't sleep? she asked softly.

"No." His gaze lingered on the letter in her hand. What's that?

Something that slipped under my door.

By whom? I don't know. She hesitated. It's old. It mentions someone named 'M.'

Damian's expression shifted a flicker of shock before he masked it. May I see it?

She hesitated, then shook her head. Not yet. I need to understand it first.

His jaw tightened. This house has too many ghosts, Miss Cruz. Be careful which ones you listen to.

And then he turned away, walking down the corridor until the shadows swallowed him.

Elena closed the door, heart still pounding. She pressed the letter to her chest.

Her mother had left a trail, one the Devereux family had buried under decades of silence.

She looked at the moonlit cliffs outside, at the waves breaking like shattered glass. For the first time, she felt the weight of something larger than grief destiny.

Her reflection in the window caught her off guard. For a second, it wasn't her face she saw, but her mother's eyes full of sorrow, lips forming silent words.

Elena whispered to the darkness: I'll find the truth, mamá. Even if it kills me.

Outside, lightning flashed over the ocean, illuminating the manor's walls. In that moment, the portrait of María Cruz in the studio below seemed to glow faintly through the storm as if answering her vow.

And somewhere deep within Blackstone Manor, an unseen door unlocked with a click.