Prologue.
A chandelier swayed above the room; its long arms splaying a gold veneer all about. Rain tapped vehemently against the curtained windows, playing a bizarre rhythm — a warning that something dangerous was yet to come.
I remembered being eleven – old enough to know when the voices were lowered and young enough to know the reason why.
I seldom sat in the cushioned leather sofa; cross legged and always a forgotten book laying on my lap. Nothing huddled up to pique my interests. Not even the stories of mythical beasts and magical worlds.
They were only promises. Nothing more.
A sigh of leisure dropped past my lips as my gaze drew up to the sight of my parents. Perhaps, they didn’t take notice of me sitting in the study that day, all alone and nothing interesting to do, as they walked past the room with no care. Their steps echoed through the hallway — secure and stern like their policies.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I didn’t intend to —
But their voices — the seriousness — lulled me in.
I chased them deliberately, keeping my pace low and sturdy, until they reached my father’s cabin. As unintentional as possible when seen, I waited outside for the door lock to click in place.
Then I pressed my ears against the wood, waiting for the conversation to strike.
“She’s…dead?” my mother’s voice was not mournful, just stunned. Her words were barely a notch above a whisper, I noticed. It was as if she had broken an ancient artifact and didn’t want anyone to know about it.
Especially, me.
“A fire broke out, they say, in the west wing of the family house. The child was all alone, locked in.” my father said.
“The guards? They would never leave that kid alone anywhere, even in their own house!” replied mother.
“Irwin will suspect the De Lucas…”, mother was frightened. She knew that the Ivanchenko’s would not spare a single life who had our family blood running in their veins if he was to find out we did it.
They had no mercy upon anyone.
“He knew we were waiting for his fall; he has all rights to suspect us. Above all, Irwin had no other heir, no brothers alive, and his only daughter—”
“…is dead.” I whispered to myself. The words came out soft, I barely heard them myself. But once spoken, they settled deep into the walls.
The heiress of Ivanchenkos is dead.
