(Beatrice's POV)
I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking against the pavement as my gaze lifted toward the massive black iron gates. A whirlwind of emotions churned within me. It had been five long years since I last set foot on this estate, and now, standing before it again, I felt an unfamiliar weight settle in my chest.
My eyes landed at the center of the gate, where a single golden word gleamed against the steel.
Gunther.
I ran my fingers over the golden letters, tracing each curve and edge. The metal was cold beneath my touch, yet it stirred something warm inside me—a collision of nostalgia, joy, sorrow, and anticipation.
Memories of laughter, whispered secrets, and bitter farewells resurfaced.
The gold letters gleamed under the dim lights—bold yet eerily quiet, like the whisper of a blade before it strikes. At first glance, the engraving was flawless, but beneath the elegant filigree lay something only a direct descendant would recognize—a hidden pattern of dots and dashes woven into the typography. A code.
Per arma, ad silentium.
Through weapons, into silence.
A gust of wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the crisp scent of earth and old stone. My hair lifted slightly, and the leaves at my feet danced across the ground. The stillness of the moment was shattered by a low, steady voice.
"Who are you?"
I turned, my focus snapping away from the gate. A guard stood tall, dressed in dark tactical gear. He was young—too young, perhaps—but there was a quiet sharpness in his stance. He was unfamiliar to me, and judging by the way his brow furrowed with uncertainty, he did not recognize me either.
I remained silent, lifting my wrist instead. The dim light caught the inked mark on my skin. I watched as his expression shifted, the rigid tension in his shoulders easing. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but caution remained.
The young man bowed slightly before signaling with his hand. The gate groaned as it parted open. He gestured for me to enter.
I turned, stepping back toward my car, but before sliding inside, I glanced over my shoulder. "Your name?"
He hesitated. "Ezekiel, my lady."
"Ezekiel," I murmured, testing the name on my tongue. "A good name."
For the briefest moment, I caught the flicker of surprise in his gaze before his expression smoothed into neutrality. He bowed again, and I offered him a fleeting smile before slipping inside my car. As I glanced back one last time, Ezekiel was gone.
I started the engine, guiding the car through the open gates and onto the long driveway lined with towering trees. The hum of the tires against the gravel was drowned out by the wind rushing past. As I drove, my eyes traced the subtle changes to the estate—the soft glow of newly placed lanterns, the scent of orchids replacing the roses I once knew. My favorite flower.
And then, finally, it stood before me.
The Fontainebleau Manor.
Grand. Imposing. Familiar. The same intricate stone columns and French architecture loomed ahead, untouched by time. The river bordering the estate shimmered under the moonlight, its waters flowing endlessly. The vast gardens remained immaculate, every blade of grass meticulously cared for, every bloom strategically placed.
I stepped out of the car, inhaling the crisp night air. My heels clicked against the stone path as I approached the entrance. Each step felt heavier than the last.
At the door, I hesitated. Then, exhaling slowly, I pushed it open.
Warm, golden light spilled into the vast entrance hall. Italian marble floors gleamed under an Austrian crystal chandelier, and the familiar scent of polished wood filled my senses.
It was just as I had left it.
Yet, something was different.
Silence.
There were no maids bustling about, no distant hum of voices. It felt... untouched. The house was spotless, yet devoid of life.
As I made my way down the hall, my heels echoed against the marble, the sound stretching through the emptiness. I turned a corner—and froze.
Reed.
My little brother lay sprawled on the sofa, fast asleep, his limbs thrown carelessly across the cushions. My chest tightened. He looked older, sharper—but still boyish in a way that made something ache inside me.
I took a step closer, my gaze locked onto his peaceful face. Then, without hesitation—
I slapped him.
Reed jolted awake with a strangled sound, eyes wide and wild. "Wha—?!"
A slow smirk curled on my lips. "Did you miss me that much?"
His face drained of color. He stared at me, slack-jawed, as if seeing a ghost. "Beatrice?"
I nodded, my smirk widening. "I'm back."
His reaction was instant.
"Ghost! AHHH!" He shrieked, scrambling off the sofa in a flurry of limbs, running as if his life depended on it.
I chuckled, settling onto the sofa he had abandoned. Stretching my arms lazily, I smirked. "Is there really a ghost as beautiful as me?"
Footsteps thundered from the hallway. I already knew what was coming.
"Dad! I really saw a ghost!" Reed's frantic voice carried through the air.
I sighed. My little brother had always been reckless, insatiably curious, and utterly foolish at times. It was both endearing and frustrating. In a family like ours, his carefree nature was a dangerous flaw.
The hurried footsteps grew louder. I turned toward the sound, already expecting my brother to return dragging someone with him. My smirk, however, slowly faded.
Standing beside Reed was a man whose presence struck me like a dagger to the chest.
My father.
He hadn't seen me yet, his focus still on Reed's frantic rambling. But then, as if sensing the shift in the air, he stilled.
Slowly, he turned.
Our eyes met.
His back went rigid. His expression twisted—confusion, disbelief, something raw and unspoken flashing across his face.
"Bea…?" His voice cracked, hoarse with years of unspoken grief.
The world seemed to shrink, the air growing heavier between us. I took a shaky step forward, his familiar eyes searching mine, as if trying to piece together the impossible.
His lips parted, trembling. His knees nearly buckled, but he stood firm, hands gripping the chair beside him for support.
"I—" he began, but the words never came. The emotions caught in his throat silenced him.
Tears burned the back of my eyes.
"It's me," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the silence. "I'm here, Dad. I'm alive."
A sharp breath left him, as if he had been holding it for five years. And then, in the next heartbeat, he crossed the distance between us, his arms wrapping around me in a crushing embrace. His body trembled against mine, and I felt his breath hitch, as if he couldn't believe I was real.
When he finally pulled back, his hands trembled as they cupped my face, his eyes tracing every feature, memorizing, confirming.
"It really is you, my princess," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. In his eyes, I saw it all—the grief, the hope, the years spent mourning a daughter he thought lost forever.
Before I could respond, a voice piped up from the side.
"So… you're not a ghost? You're really Beatrice?"
I turned to see Reed, his mouth slightly open in stunned realization.
A slow, mischievous smirk spread across my lips. "What do you think, little brother?"
Reed swallowed, his face paling.
"Oh no," he whispered. "The devil is back…" I caught the words as his lips moved.
I strode toward him, and he instinctively stepped back, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal.
"Wh-what are you doing?" he stammered, raising his hands in a defensive stance that was more laughable than intimidating.
I smirked—the kind that made him shrink a little. "Looks like someone got a little too complacent these past five years while I was gone."
His face twisted in horror, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. He knew exactly what I meant. I bet he remembered the intense training I put him through five years ago.
"We're at home," he protested, puffing out his chest in a weak attempt to look strong.
"And?" I arched a brow. "I told you—wherever you are, always be vigilant. You never know when or how the enemy will strike. Just like earlier, sleeping like a pig without a care for your surroundings. If I were really an assassin, you wouldn't have even known how you died… only that you died—easily." I sneered.
"I—hmp!" He looked away, clearly flustered.
I tilted my head, my gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. "You-you," he stammered, his voice cracking. "You think I'm afraid of you? This time, I'll probably beat you!"
Without a second thought, I threw a punch. He dodged it, his movements surprisingly quick. I smirked. Oh, this was going to be interesting.
We circled each other, the tension thick in the air. Reed lunged first, his fist aimed at my shoulder. I sidestepped effortlessly, smirking as I leaned in close enough for him to hear me. "Too predictable, little brother. I saw that punch coming a mile away."
His jaw tightened, and he swung again, faster this time. I ducked, my movements fluid as water. "Better," I said, my voice dripping with mockery. "But you're still leaving your left side wide open. Amateur mistake."
Reed growled, frustration bubbling over as he tried to catch me off guard with a quick jab. I blocked it with ease, my forearm meeting his with a satisfying thud. "You call that a jab? I've seen toddlers throw punches with more conviction."
His face turned red, and he came at me with renewed determination, his strikes faster and more erratic. I dodged each one, precise and calculated. "You're wasting energy, Reed. Work on your stamina. What if an assassin came for you? You'd be out cold before they even broke a sweat."
"Stop talking!" he snapped, his voice cracking as he swung wildly.
I tilted my head, feigning curiosity as I sidestepped another punch. "Why? Is my commentary distracting you? Or is it just the truth that's hard to hear?"
Reed let out a frustrated yell and charged at me, arms outstretched in a desperate attempt to tackle me. At the last second, I stepped aside and stuck my foot out just enough to trip him. He stumbled but caught himself, glaring at me with a mix of anger and determination.
"Alright, let's see what you've got," I said, beckoning him with a flick of my fingers.
He came at me again, this time with a flurry of punches. I dodged and blocked each one, my movements almost lazy in their precision. Then I saw it—the opening I needed. With a swift move, I swept his legs out from under him, and he hit the floor with a thud.
"Argh!" Reed groaned, clutching his side as he glared up at me.
I crouched down beside him, smirking as I leaned in close. "Lesson one: never let your emotions control your movements. It makes you sloppy. And little brother..." I patted his head with a teasing grin. "I missed you."
Reed glared at me for a moment, lips pursed like he was deciding whether to protest or accept defeat. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, he extended his hand. I helped him up, and he immediately brushed off his clothes, muttering under his breath.
"Hmp! I won't argue with you today," he said, turning his head away—but not before sneaking a glance at me. "Only because you just came back."
"Yes, yes!" I chirped, flashing him the brightest smile I could muster.
He crossed his arms and looked away, pretending it didn't matter. But I caught the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes—relief, happiness. I knew him too well. He was acting tough and stubborn, but deep down, he was glad I was here.
Before I could tease him further, Dad's voice cut through the air like a blade. "All right, all right. That's enough."
"Dad…" Reed whined, his tone a mix of indignation and pleading as he gestured toward me like a child trying to tattle.
Dad didn't even glance his way. His eyes were fixed on me, serious and unwavering.
I swallowed hard, the weight of his gaze pressing down on my chest. His mouth opened, forming—but before he could speak, a quiet voice from behind interrupted.
"Beatrice... is that you?"
To be continued…