I was still talking when he reached to slam the door in my face from inside.
“Wait!” My voice was filled with urgency, my hand snapping out to prevent the door from closing. “My name is Emika Morgan!” The words spilled out in a torrent. “Elizabeth Morgan Beaumont is my mother.”
The man’s expression softened instantly, and his brows arched in disbelief. “You’re Lizzy’s child?”
I nodded.
He looked beyond me, as if searching for her. “Is she with you?”
There was something in his voice that I couldn’t name, but it sounded an awful lot like anticipation.
“Unfortunately, no.” I swallowed hard.
“Please, come in.” He stepped aside, gesturing into the house.
“Thank you.” I walked inside, drinking in the sleek interior design.
There was nothing modern about the place, but it sure was breathtaking. It was a living museum: polished marblefloors, expensive chandeliers, state-of-the-art furniture, and high walls adorned with fine art.
One of the hanging portraits caught my attention, forcing me to stop in my tracks. It was my mother; she was way younger and much more beautiful.
“I still miss her to this day,” the man said, standing at a distance. “How is she?”
That question wrecked me in ways I wasn’t ready for.
I turned to him, hesitating for a moment. “She’s sick.”
“Good Lord,” he murmured under his breath.
“I need to speak with my grandfather,” I said. “It’s urgent.”
He nodded. “He’s out back, watering the plants. Follow me.”
He led me to the garden behind the mansion, where the air smelled of fresh flowers and the hedgerows were neatly trimmed. An elderly man with gray hair, dressed in a brown robe, was watering the plants when we arrived.
I stood behind the man in a black tux, his height hiding my petite frame.
“You have a visitor,” he said, his voice calm and gentle.
“A visitor?” my grandfather asked. “Who?”
The man stepped aside, revealing my identity.
Grandpa’s eyes locked with mine, and although his expression remained blank, I could tell that he knew who I was. He recognized me even though he hadn’t seen me before. His grip tightened around the watering can, and his brows furrowed by a whisper.
“Barclay,” he said, without looking at the man in the black tux. “Please, excuse us.”
Barclay nodded and walked away.
“You look just like her,” my grandpa said after a moment of awkward silence.
“I get that a lot.”
He stared at me, as if unsure of what to say or do next. “Twenty-three years,” he said at last. “That’s how long it’s been since she left this house and never returned.” He paused. “Does she know you’re here?”
I shook my head.
“Of course she doesn’t,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “Well, it was nice meeting you. But you’d better leave now before she finds out. I don’t want her sinking her fangs into my flesh.”
