My name is Lily. I'm nineteen years old, and people tell me I'm beautiful—devastatingly so. My skin is like porcelain, pale and flawless. My long black hair cascades down my back like a waterfall of silk, catching the light with every movement. My eyes—they say my eyes could make anyone lose themselves. My figure is what draws attention everywhere I go—a slender waist that curves into full breasts, and long legs that seem to go on forever. But my life isn't as perfect as it appears from the outside.
Our family is among London's wealthiest—a billionaire dynasty where money flows like water, but secrets run even deeper. My father, Richard Thompson, is a business tycoon whose deals span continents and shape economies. Mother, Elizabeth, is a socialite perpetually caught up in charity galas and high-society parties. My older brother, Alex, manages the family empire with an iron fist, and his wife—my sister-in-law Sophia—is a former model, breathtakingly beautiful yet mysteriously elusive. Then there's my younger sister, Emily, away at university, living in the dorms far from our family's tangled web.
Our home sits in Kensington, one of London's most prestigious neighborhoods—a sprawling mansion where every room drips with luxury, yet the walls seem to whisper secrets in the darkness.
That particular night, rain hammered against the windows with relentless fury. London's cold nights have always frightened me—the way the wind whistles through gaps, how raindrops tap against the glass like ghostly fingers trying to get in. I stood on my balcony around eleven o'clock, the night air biting at my exposed skin. Mother and Father were in Paris, closing some massive business deal worth hundreds of millions. They were always traveling, always chasing the next fortune.
The house felt enormous in their absence. Just me, Alex, and Sophia rattling around in all that space. Emily was safe in her dorm room, probably studying or partying with friends, blissfully unaware of what happened here when our parents were gone.
I wore a thin nightgown that clung to my curves, already damp from the mist carried by the wind. Goosebumps spread across my skin, but it wasn't just from the cold. Something felt wrong. The rain carried with it an ominous energy, as if the storm itself was trying to warn me of something lurking just beyond my understanding.
I glanced back through the balcony doors into the house. The lights were dimmed throughout, with only a single lamp burning in the hallway below, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed almost alive.
Fear crept into my chest—that particular kind of fear that comes from being alone in a place too large, where every corner could hide something you don't want to see. I decided to check on Alex and Sophia. Perhaps their company would ease this inexplicable dread.
Their master bedroom was on the upper floor—a sanctuary of luxury with its king-sized bed, crystal chandelier, and expensive artwork adorning the walls. I climbed the stairs slowly, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpet and drowned out by the storm's crescendo outside.
Then I heard it.
At first, I thought it was the wind, or perhaps the old house settling. But no—these were distinct sounds. Moans. Gasps. Sophia's voice, crying out in what could have been pain or... something else entirely.
"Harder... please, harder!" Her voice echoed through the hallway, filled with an emotion I couldn't quite identify. It wasn't pain—not exactly. There was pleasure there, raw and unfiltered, bouncing off the walls of our massive home like a secret demanding to be discovered.
I froze on the landing, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it over the rain. What was happening in there? Was Alex hurting her? Was this some kind of fight? Or was it something else—something I was too innocent to understand?
My feet moved me toward their door, but then I stopped. No. I couldn't look. Whatever was happening behind that door wasn't meant for my eyes. I turned and ran back to my room as if something was chasing me, my nightgown billowing behind me like wings.
Back in the safety of my bedroom, I slammed the door and locked it, then dove under my covers, pulling them up to my chin. Outside, the rain intensified, as if nature itself was amplifying my fear. I tried to sleep, but those sounds echoed in my mind—Sophia's cries, the rhythmic creaking I'd heard beneath her voice.
Was she hurt? Was this some game they played? Our family was wealthy beyond measure, but Father always warned us that wealth came with enemies. Could someone be threatening them? David Blackwood, Father's business rival, was always trying to sabotage our deals. Could he have sent someone here?
The questions swirled in my mind until exhaustion finally pulled me under. I fell into a fitful sleep, my dreams haunted by shadows and sounds I couldn't quite place.
---
When I woke the next morning, sunlight was fighting its way through London's perpetual fog, casting the room in a grey, dreamlike haze. I looked at myself in the mirror—my eyes were ringed with dark circles, evidence of my troubled night. I dressed in something simple and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.
Our kitchen was a chef's paradise—marble countertops, imported appliances, every gadget and tool imaginable. Usually, our personal chef handled breakfast, but he was on holiday, so I decided to cook something myself. Toast, eggs, coffee—simple comfort food to ground me after such a strange night.
Alex had already left for the office—he always did, departing at seven sharp to manage the family's business empire worth billions. I was alone with Sophia.
"Sophia! Breakfast is ready!" I called out, arranging the plates on the island counter.
The door to the master suite opened, and Sophia emerged. But something was immediately, glaringly wrong.
She was limping. Actually limping, as if every step caused her pain. Sophia, who normally moved with the fluid grace of the runway model she used to be, who could walk in six-inch heels like they were sneakers—she was hobbling like she'd been injured.
Her face looked exhausted, dark circles matching mine, but there was a satisfied smile playing at the corners of her lips, as if she was holding onto some delicious secret.
"Sophia! Oh my God, what happened to you? Why are you limping? Are you hurt?" I rushed toward her, genuine concern flooding through me.
She laughed—actually laughed—and looked away. "It's nothing, Lily. Just didn't sleep well last night, that's all."
The answer was too vague, too dismissive. She was hiding something, and my curiosity burned even brighter. We sat down at the table to eat, making small talk about the weather, Alex's business deals, when our parents would return from Paris. But I couldn't focus on any of it. I kept stealing glances at Sophia, trying to piece together what had happened.
When she stood up to head back to her room, I saw it.
The chair where she'd been sitting—there was blood on it. Not a lot, but unmistakable. Red stains on the cream-colored cushion, spreading slowly into the fabric.
My heart stopped. "Sophia! Wait! What... what is that? There's blood on the chair!"
She turned, and for a moment, genuine embarrassment crossed her face. "Oh, Lily, it's nothing. Really. Don't worry about it."
But I couldn't not worry. My mind raced with possibilities—was she having a medical emergency? Had Alex actually hurt her? Was this why she was limping?
"No, absolutely not. You're not just brushing this off. I'm taking you to a doctor. Right now." I grabbed her arm, my voice taking on a firmness I didn't know I possessed.
"Lily, no, really, I'm fine—"
"I don't care. I'm not letting you walk around bleeding. Come on." I practically dragged her back toward the master bedroom, my protective instincts overriding her protests.
The master suite was as luxurious as ever—the enormous bed with its silk sheets still rumpled from the night before, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of London's skyline, everything speaking of wealth and privilege. But right now, all I could focus on was Sophia's welfare.
I sat her down on the edge of the bed, my hands gentle but insistent. "Show me where you're hurt. Please."
Sophia hesitated, her eyes darting away from mine. There was something in her expression—shame mixed with something else I couldn't identify. Finally, she nodded slowly.
I helped her remove her pants, then carefully, gently, slid down her panties. I positioned her on the bed, lying back, and what I saw made me gasp.