Chapter 4 - The Letters in the Attic
The next morning broke cold and crisp, sunlight reflecting off the fresh snow outside the towering arched windows of the estate.
I spent the morning in the nursery with Lily. For the first time in her life, according to the nervous, wide-eyed nanny who brought us breakfast, Lily ate a full bowl of warm oatmeal without crying or throwing her spoon. She sat on the plush rug, playing with wooden blocks, occasionally looking up to make sure I was still sitting in the armchair beside her.
Every time our eyes met, a tiny, hesitant smile touched her lips. She didn't speak again, but her quiet presence felt like a flower slowly opening after a long, brutal frost.
At noon, while Lily was taking a peaceful nap, Arthur brought me a tray of hot tea.
“Miss Brooks,” the old butler said, dropping his voice to a whisper as he set the tray on the coffee table. “Mr. Cross is currently in an executive meeting with the family capos in the library downstairs. He asked me to ensure you were comfortable.”
“I’m fine, Arthur,” I said, offering him a gentle smile. “Thank you. But... can I ask you something?”
Arthur hesitated, looking toward the hallway before bowing slightly. “If it is within my place to answer, Miss.”
“Where are Helena’s old belongings kept?” I asked softly. “Damon mentioned her estate was sealed, but... a child’s room usually has things from her mother. There isn't a single photograph of Helena in this nursery.”
Arthur’s face paled slightly. He pulled a pocket watch from his vest, checked the time, and leaned in closer.
“Mrs. Eleanor had all of Helena’s personal effects moved to the old east attic after the funeral,” Arthur whispered hurriedly. “She ordered the house staff never to speak of her to the young master. But... if you ask me, Miss Brooks, a child deserves to know where she came from. The key is in the third drawer of the hall linen closet.”
My heart did a sudden, rapid flip. “Why are you telling me this, Arthur?”
The old man looked at me with soft, sad eyes. “Because in thirty years of serving this family, I have never seen young Lily smile until you walked through that front door last night. Whatever ghosts are haunting this house, Miss Brooks... I think you were brought here to clear them out.”
Ten minutes later, with Lily sound asleep under the nanny's watchful eye, I slipped down the quiet, carpeted corridor of the east wing. My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird as I retrieved the brass key from the linen closet and unlocked the narrow door leading up to the attic stairs.
The attic smelled of old dust, dried lavender, and aged leather.
Towering stacks of wooden crates, antique furniture covered in white sheets, and locked trunks lined the vast, rafter-exposed space. I navigated through the labyrinth of memories until I found a corner tucked under the eaves, where three large, pristine leather trunks bore the monogrammed initials: H.M.C. – Helena Moretti Cross.
I dropped to my knees, dust swirling in the cold shafts of sunlight piercing the roof tiles.
The brass lock on the center trunk was old, but the key Arthur had given me fit perfectly. It turned with a heavy, metallic click.
I opened the lid.
Inside lay pristine silk dresses, expensive pearl necklaces, and unopened leather journals. But beneath the clothes, tucked into a hidden false bottom of the trunk, was a thick, yellowed envelope sealed with red wax.
On the front of the envelope, written in hasty, trembling feminine handwriting, were three words:
TO MY DAUGHTER, LILY.
My breath caught in my throat. My hands trembled as I carefully broke the wax seal and pulled out the thick stack of papers inside.
It wasn't just a letter.
It was an official hospital record from the St. Jude Mercy Maternity Clinic in rural Illinois, dated two years ago—alongside a handwritten confession signed by Helena Moretti herself and sealed with a notary stamp.
I unfolded the letter, my eyes scanning the frantic, blotched ink.
“To my little lily,
If you are reading this, it means I am gone, and the lies of the Cross and Moretti families have swallowed the truth whole. They told my husband I was pregnant with his heir. But Eleanor Cross and my own father arranged a monstrous deceit.
I was infertile, Lily. The doctors told us I could never carry a child. But Eleanor needed an heir to secure the family fortune against the rival factions, so they paid a young, desperate surrogate in secret—a woman named Sarah Brooks, who gave birth to a healthy girl at St. Jude Clinic on November 14th.
Before Sarah died of birth complications three days later, she signed away her rights under duress, but she left one condition behind: she made me swear that her younger sister, Natalie Brooks—the girl who was forced to give up her college dreams to pay Sarah's medical bills—would one day be found if anything happened to me.
Lily... you are not a Moretti by blood. You are a Brooks. Natalie Brooks is your biological aunt. Your mother’s blood runs in your veins. I stole you from her family to play a game of mob politics. May God forgive me...”
The paper slipped from my numb fingers, fluttering down to the dusty floorboards.
My throat seized up. Tears choked my lungs as the world spun wildly around me.
Sarah.
My older sister, Sarah, who had vanished six years ago after getting involved with a dangerous crowd, whom I had searched for across three states until the police told me her paper trail had gone cold.
She hadn't just disappeared. She had been used, kept in a gilded cage by the Cross family, and buried in an unmarked grave after giving birth to the little girl sleeping downstairs.
Lily wasn't just a random child who had picked me out of a crowd.
May you like
She was my niece. My sister’s daughter. My own flesh and blood.
“Finding things that don't belong to you, Miss Brooks?” a cold, sharp voice echoed through the attic.
