Chapter 11 – Whispers in the Dark

The house felt different that night.

It was the same grand mansion I had spent my whole life in, yet something about it felt… off. The air was thick with an unspoken tension, the dimly lit hallways stretching endlessly before me like a maze of secrets waiting to be uncovered.

I stood outside my father’s study, my heart pounding in my chest.

This was it.

Brandon told me to look for clues, to dig deeper. If Leila had found something about my past, this was the best place to start.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob. Locked.

Of course.

I glanced around, making sure no one was watching before pulling a pin from my hair. I had never been the rebellious type, but after years of being trapped in this house, I had learned a few tricks.

Click.

The lock gave way, and I quickly slipped inside, shutting the door behind me.

The study smelled of leather and old paper. My father’s desk sat in the center of the room, neat and organized—too perfect, as if it was designed to hide something.

I started searching.

Drawers, cabinets, shelves—nothing stood out. Just documents about business deals and family finances.

Until I found it.

A locked wooden box tucked inside the bottom drawer.

My hands trembled as I picked it up. It was heavy, the wood dark and polished. A name was engraved on the top.

"Leila."

My breath hitched.

Why would my father have a box with Leila’s name on it?

And more importantly…

What was inside?

My fingers traced the engraved letters, my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

Why would my father keep something like this?

I glanced at the lock—small but sturdy. No key in sight.

Think, Clarisse.

I searched through the desk again, carefully opening drawers, flipping through papers. And then I found it—a small, silver key taped under the desk.

I hesitated for only a moment before sliding it into the lock.

Click.

The lid lifted with a soft creak, revealing a stack of papers, some old photographs, and a single letter on top.

My hands shook as I picked up the letter. The paper was yellowed, the ink slightly smudged, as if someone had handled it too many times.

I unfolded it carefully and began to read.

"To my dearest daughter, Leila…"

My stomach twisted.

This was from my father.

I forced myself to continue.

*"There are things you don’t know. Things I had to keep from you to protect our family. But I fear that one day, the truth will come out, and you will understand why I did what I did.

Clarisse was never meant to be part of this family."*

I sucked in a sharp breath.

"She was never supposed to exist."

The letter slipped from my fingers.

My chest tightened as my father’s words burned into my mind.

Never supposed to exist?

What the hell did that mean?

----

I stared at the letter, my vision blurring.

"Clarisse was never meant to be part of this family. She was never supposed to exist."

The words felt like a slap, knocking the air out of my lungs.

I had always known I was different—that my parents treated me like an outsider, that my siblings looked at me like I didn’t belong. But to see it, written in my father’s own handwriting…

It made it real.

I forced myself to keep reading, even as my hands trembled.

"She is not your sister, Leila. Not by blood."

A choked gasp escaped me.

Not by blood?

"She was brought into this house for a reason, one you will understand when the time comes. But until then, you must forget your questions. You must protect the family’s secret at all costs."

My pulse pounded in my ears.

So this was what Leila had discovered. This was what she had been trying to tell me before she disappeared.

I wasn’t really part of this family.

I wasn’t a Villareal.

The realization should have been terrifying. It should have shaken me to my core.

But instead…

I felt relief.

For years, I had wondered why they hated me. Why they treated me like I was nothing. Now I knew.

Because I wasn’t one of them.

I clenched my fists, my breathing uneven.

Leila had known the truth. And now, she was gone.

Whatever she found out had made her disappear.

And if I wasn’t careful…

I might be next.

-----

My fingers curled around the letter, gripping it so tightly that the paper crumpled.

I wasn’t a Villareal. I wasn’t really part of this family.

And they had hidden this from me my whole life.

A shaky breath escaped my lips. No wonder they treated me like trash. No wonder they never cared.

I forced myself to go through the rest of the box, flipping through the papers, looking for anything that could explain who I really was. But the documents were vague—financial records, legal agreements, nothing that directly mentioned me.

Then I saw the photographs.

I picked up the first one, my hands trembling.

It was an old picture of a woman I didn’t recognize—beautiful, with long dark hair and sad eyes. She looked young, maybe in her early twenties. She wasn’t smiling.

I flipped it over.

Beatriz Ramirez – 2003.

The name meant nothing to me.

I reached for another photo, my breath catching in my throat when I saw what it was.

It was a picture of me.

Or rather… a baby that looked like me, wrapped in a pink blanket, held by the same woman from the first photo.

My heart pounded.

Who was she? Was she… my real mother?

Before I could process it, a sudden creak from outside the study made me freeze.

Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

I shoved the photos and letter back into the box, my heart racing. I barely had time to slide it back into the drawer before the doorknob twisted.

The door swung open.

And standing there, with cold, calculating eyes, was my father.

I swallowed hard.

“Clarisse,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “What exactly do you think you’re doing in here?”

--------

I swallowed hard, forcing my face to remain neutral despite the panic rising in my chest.

My father’s eyes were sharp, his posture rigid. He was never one to tolerate disobedience, and I had just been caught snooping.

“I—I was just looking for a book,” I lied, stepping away from the desk.

His gaze flickered to the drawer I had just closed.

My pulse pounded as he took slow, measured steps toward me.

“A book?” he repeated, his tone cold.

I nodded quickly. “Yes. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d find something to read.”

For a moment, there was only silence. The kind that made my skin crawl.

Then—

Smack!

Pain exploded across my cheek as his hand connected with my face.

I staggered back, gripping the desk for support. The sting burned, but I refused to let tears fall.

“You dare lie to me?” His voice was ice, controlled fury simmering beneath the surface. “What were you really doing in here?”

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to look at him. “Nothing.”

His eyes darkened. “You think I don’t know when someone has been going through my things?”

I stayed silent.

The tension thickened, his gaze drilling into mine. Then, without another word, he turned, walked to the desk, and pulled open the drawer.

My stomach dropped.

He reached inside, and I held my breath—

But instead of the wooden box, he pulled out a different folder.

My hands trembled at the realization.

He didn’t see it. He didn’t know.

For now, at least.

He flipped through the folder, then glanced at me with suspicion. “Get out.”

I didn’t wait for him to change his mind. I turned on my heel and walked toward the door, my face still stinging from his slap.

Just as I reached the hallway, his voice cut through the darkness.

“One last thing, Clarisse.”

I paused, gripping the doorframe.

“Stay out of my study. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

I nodded stiffly and stepped out, closing the door behind me.

But as I walked away, my mind raced.

I had gotten lucky this time. But I needed to be careful.

Because now, I knew the truth.

And if my father ever found out…

I wouldn’t just be unwanted.

I’d be erased.

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