THE SECRET DOOR

The morning came with an icy chill. It wrapped around me like a warning, crisp and sharp. My nerves were alive, and it caused me to buzz with anticipation and unease as I made my way to the Blackwell mansion. 

Each step carried the weight of my mission, but something else lingered in the air—a feeling I couldn't quite place like I was being watched.

The streets were very quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. I found my heels clicking against the pavement, their rhythm steady but louder than I liked, almost as if I was trying to avoid any attention.

Then I felt it again—that tingling sensation at the back of my head. 

I slowed down the pace at which I was walking, pretending to adjust the strap of my bag as I stole a glance over my shoulder.

Nothing. Just empty sidewalks and parked cars.

I let out a sigh of relief. "Take it easy, Sophie," I said, convincing myself it was just nerves. 

But when I turned the corner, my pulse spiked. A man stood at the mouth of an alleyway, shrouded in shadows. 

He had a black hat pulled low and dark glasses that obscured his face. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, silent and still, as if waiting.

I looked away quickly, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag. My pace quickened, the towering gates of the Blackwell estate now visible ahead. 

But the tension coiled in my chest didn't ease. When I finally dared to look back, the alley was empty.

A shiver raced down my spine, but I forced my legs to keep moving. Paranoia wouldn't help me now. I couldn't afford to lose focus, not when I was this close.

The gates of the Blackwell mansion opened with deliberate slowness, their metallic groan matching the growing weight in my chest. Beyond them, the mansion loomed like a monument to power, its glass walls reflecting the morning sunlight in a blinding display of wealth. 

Maria was already waiting for me at the door and she had her ever-ready clipboard tucked under one arm. Her sharp eyes swept over me, and she didn't bother to hide her scrutiny.

"You're late," she said, her tone clipped.

"My apologies, ma'am," I murmured, though I knew I wasn't. She handed me a checklist, as she turned around and made her way into the mansion. 

"Your first task is to clean Mr. Blackwell's private wing. Everything must be flawless. The little details matter the most."

"Understood". I muttered like a soldier following a command. 

Maria didn't wait for a response. She dusted a coat hanger and made her way down the marble corridor. I followed, clutching the clipboard like a lifeline.

The mansion's interior was an intimidating sight to behold. The floors glittered, the chandeliers sparkled, and the air carried a faint, expensive scent that stayed with you long after you had breathed it.

It felt like every item was placed with a calculative thought behind it, from the artwork on the walls to the arrangement of furniture. It wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

When we reached a pair of double doors, Maria stopped and turned to face me. 

"Do not touch anything that isn't part of your task," she said. "And ensure you work on time."

She pushed one door open and signalled for me to enter.

Adrian's private wing was nothing like I had seen before: sleek, modern, and vast enough to house a family of ten. 

A large desk sat near the window, its surface gleaming under the soft sunlight. Bookshelves lined one wall, their leather-bound volumes arranged with military precision. 

The air gave off a scent resembling that of cedar and leather, a scent that seemed to suit him perfectly.

I started with cleaning the desk, carefully dusting its edges and straightening the few items it held. My hands moved steadily, but my mind did the opposite. 

I truly wanted to inspect every object as any item could hold a clue about Adrian's connection to my father's downfall.

After, I moved to the walk-in closet. I noticed rows of tailored suits hung in a specific order with their colours shifting from dark to light. 

Shoes were neatly arranged like artwork on polished shelves, and ties were organised as if they were gems being presented by a jeweller. The precision of it all was mind-blowing.

As I proceeded to the next batch of items to clean, my elbow brushed against something on the wall. 

I heard something move in the walls, sounding like gears grinding on top of each other. It froze my steps. Slowly, I turned to see what had caused the sound. A section of the wall slid open, revealing a hidden door.

I paused. For a moment, I just stared, caught between curiosity and fear. This was it—the kind of secret I'd been hoping to uncover.

I glanced swiftly through the hallway to ensure I was still alone then proceeded to step through the door.

The hidden room was stark and modest. A glass desk sat at its centre, holding a closed laptop and a stack of files. The walls were bare, except for a single framed photo of Adrian with an older man I didn't recognize.

I walked cautiously up to the desk, still feeling very nervous. The files looked a bit old with their edges worn from frequent handling. My fingers hovered over one, the temptation nearly unbearable.

"What are you hiding, Adrian?" I whispered under my breath.

I opened the file and quickly looked through its contents. Numbers, dates, and names sprang out at me like pieces of a puzzle that I was still unable to put together. 

Could this be the evidence I needed? Could it prove Adrian's role in my father's demise?

Before I could dive deeper, a sound hit me from the hallway.

Footsteps.

They were steady, deliberate, and unmistakably heading toward the closet.

Panic swept through my body. There was no way out, no place to hide. The only escape was the door I'd come through.

Suddenly, the closet doors creaked open.