The House of Secrets

The car slipped quietly into the dim, slumbering streets of Klein Kuppe. The familiar scenery stirred something deep in Vicky—a strange mix of longing and dread. Her heart thudded a little faster. This place held history.

Minutes later, Ruben parked before the tall iron gates of Nathan's mansion.

"All the lights are off. Good sign—it means everyone's asleep," Cinthia observed, scanning the silent house. "Wait in the car. I'll go in first."

She exited quickly.

"You're right," Ruben said, glancing at Vicky. "Apologies if we seem secretive—we just don't want to wake anyone. Especially not after the night he's had."

"I understand," Vicky murmured, eyes fixed on the looming house.

Cinthia returned shortly, her face serious. "It's almost clear."

"Almost?" Ruben echoed.

"Monica's awake, but distracted—cutting papers or something, with her EarPods on. We have to move quietly."

"No lights," Ruben instructed. "We'll use our phones."

They slipped into the house like shadows. Nathan stirred but was still halfway between panic and sleep.

"Boss… Nate?" Ruben called gently.

"I've got him," Vicky said, moving to his side. She took Nathan's hand, steadying him, guiding him inside. The moment her foot crossed the threshold—

The entire mansion lit up.

Everyone froze.

"Who turned on the lights?" Cinthia whispered harshly.

Ruben shrugged, wide-eyed. "I don't know…"

No footsteps. No switches. No trace of who triggered it.

They rushed Nathan to his room and eased him into bed.

"Thank you, Vicky," Cinthia said, surprisingly sincere.

"He needs something calming—chamomile tea, or even yogurt. Anything to soothe his nerves," Vicky advised, concern in her voice.

"We'll handle it. Ruben will take you home," Cinthia said briskly.

"No, please—let me stay, just until he's settled. If you don't have the tea, I can make it…"

"Why are you acting like you care?" Cinthia's eyes narrowed. "You barely know him."

Vicky faltered, caught off guard. "I… I just—"

"Cinthy," Ruben interrupted gently.

"We can't afford to get caught," Cinthia pressed, motioning toward the door.

Vicky began to rise—but Nathan, even in his haze, gripped her hand.

Everyone stared.

"Please… don't go," Nathan muttered, his voice thick. "Stay… Mom…"

"Oh no," Ruben sighed. "He's still in the episode."

"He's holding on tight," Cinthia noted. "We should call his doctor."

"Yes. While we wait, let her make the tea," Ruben suggested.

"What? No. Nate's never been treated like this before, and I'm not risking his health based on some emotional theory," Cinthia argued.

"My father died in a fire," Vicky said suddenly, her voice low but steady. "I was there. I just… watched. Ever since, panic attacks haunt me at the sight of fire. My mother used to make me chamomile tea, every night, until I could sleep again. Until I could breathe."

A beat of silence.

"Touching little story," Cinthia muttered, unsure whether to feel pity or skepticism.

Ruben, however, looked moved. "My boss went through something similar. You only understand pain when you've worn its skin. Go ahead, Vicky."

"I need you to hold him for a moment," Vicky said softly. "Just so I can prepare the tea."

Cinthia tried, but Nathan wouldn't release Vicky's hand.

"He won't let go," she said, exasperated.

"How is he so strong in his sleep?" Ruben wondered.

"I'll give you the recipe—can you make it?" Vicky asked.

"Me? We have staff for that—let's call Aune," Cinthia said.

"She's asleep. I'll do it," Ruben volunteered.

Without a word, Vicky shrugged off her jacket and carefully placed it under Nathan's head, sliding one hand out as he clung to the fabric. His grip softened.

"He's still holding onto your jacket," Ruben whispered.

Cinthia watched, impressed. "That's… brilliant."

She led Vicky to the kitchen, flicking on her phone's flashlight. "Everything's here. Just tell me what you need."

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit room down the hall, Monica finished slicing sheets into fake currency. She packed the counterfeit bills into a bag.

"There you go, idiot," she muttered, dialing her ex.

"I knew you'd call back," he answered smugly.

"You don't have to do this."

"What? Date again?" he laughed.

"No. Why do you need so much money?"

"You're not allowed to ask questions. Are you giving it or not?"

"I have the money. But you delete those photos. Permanently."

"That was the deal. Sending the location. Come alone."

The call ended.

"Damn it," Monica hissed. She slung the bag over her shoulder and stepped out—only to freeze. The house was lit.

"Why are the lights on?"

Cinthia's ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Monica's coming this way," she warned, tensing.

"What do we do?" she asked Ruben, panicked.

"The real question is: what if she sees a stranger in our kitchen?" Ruben said grimly.

Cinthia rushed to Nate's room, preparing to lock it.

"Wait—don't," Ruben stopped her.

Just then, Monica's voice rang out.

"Nate? You home?"

Ruben stepped out to meet her, blocking her view.

"Evening," he said smoothly. "Nate's exhausted—just got him to sleep. Don't wake him."

"Oh… Did you guys drink or something?"

"Not too much. But the food… with that drink combo? Hit hard. You know how it is."

Monica squinted suspiciously but said nothing.

Behind the doors, secrets brewed hotter than the tea on the stove.