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đź“– The Billionaire's Dark Secret
Chapter Three – Whispers in the Dark
Zoey followed Damian down a corridor lined with oil paintings whose subjects all seemed to be watching her. The candlelight made their painted eyes glisten with a too-real gleam, and she had the distinct feeling that the air was colder here, as though sunlight never touched these walls.
Her heels echoed against polished stone. She wished they didn't sound so loud.
"Where are we going?" she asked finally, trying to keep her tone casual, reporter-like, though her pulse thudded in her throat.
"You want to understand the Blackwell legacy," Damian said without looking back. His voice was smooth, measured, but carried a weight she couldn't define. "I'll show you what feeds the rumors."
His words lingered. Feeds the rumors.
They stopped before a pair of massive iron doors. Strange markings ran along the edges — symbols etched so faintly they might have been missed, but Zoey's sharp eyes caught them. They weren't just decorative. They looked… old. Too old.
Damian pushed the doors open with ease that belied their weight. Beyond was a room unlike anything Zoey expected.
The library.
Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched into the shadows, crammed with ancient tomes and leather-bound volumes whose spines bore titles in languages Zoey didn't recognize. The scent of aged paper and candle wax hung heavy in the air. At the center stood a long table, scattered with documents, photographs, and maps that looked like they belonged in a museum.
Zoey stepped inside, her journalist's instincts flaring. Every inch of her wanted to start taking notes. "This is… incredible."
Damian moved with the ease of a man at home among ghosts. He lit a candelabrum, shadows leaping across his sharp features. "This is the part of my world most never see. Contracts, treaties, bloodlines…" He let the word hang, tasting it. "The foundations of empires."
Zoey traced her fingers along a stack of books. Their leather was cracked, their pages fragile. One fell open, and she glimpsed a hand-drawn sketch — a creature with burning eyes, wings spread wide, half-human, half-shadow. She gasped softly.
"What is this?"
Damian's gaze flicked to the book. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Folklore," he said, too quickly. "Stories passed down. My family collects them."
But Zoey didn't believe him. Not fully.
"Do you?" she asked, tilting her head.
He studied her for a long moment, then gave a smile that was more blade than warmth. "I believe some stories exist to warn us. Others… to remind us what we are."
Before Zoey could press further, a sudden clang echoed from somewhere deeper in the manor — metal against stone, sharp enough to make her jump.
Her eyes darted to Damian. "What was that?"
For the first time since she met him, something flickered across his face — not fear, but irritation. Controlled, but unmistakable.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," he said, his tone clipped. "Stay here."
He moved toward the shadows at the far end of the library, silent, predatory, his broad frame swallowed by the dark.
Zoey's heart hammered. Every rational instinct screamed at her to do as he said. Stay put. Don't wander. Don't pry.
But she was Zoey Hart — stubborn, curious, a woman who never walked away from a story. And every part of her screamed that this house, this man, this night… was hiding something that could change everything she thought she knew.
Slowly, she slipped her phone from her purse, the faint glow of the screen casting light on her trembling hands. She snapped a photo of the sketch in the book, then glanced toward the shadows where Damian had disappeared.
The silence thickened.
And then—
"Miss Hart."
The voice came from behind her.
Cold. Whisper-soft. Not Damian's.
Zoey spun around, breath trapped in her chest —
But there was nothing there.
Only the rows of books, and the shadows that seemed just a little too deep, a little too alive.
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