Page 25 of Blood Heir

Emilia, I know, is a snake. She has her own agenda, and I’m sure of it. But for now, it’s worth the risk. I don’t trust her, but I need something from her. I need to know more about who I used to be.

I smile, the expression feeling almost foreign but welcome on my face. “Sure, why not?”

Emilia’s face lights up, her grin widening impossibly as she claps her hands in joy. She doesn’t wait for another response, her hands darting to grab the outfit and practically shoving it into my hands.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror, staring at myself in the ridiculous outfit Emilia picked out. The net top clings to my skin, and the yellow makes me feel like a walking highlighter. The skirt? Flowing, too much fabric for comfort. The sun hat is way too big, and the sunglasses—they’re like something out of a bad movie.

I take one last glance in the mirror and let out a sigh, pushing the inconvenient thoughts aside. Whatever this is, I’mgoing with it. At least it’s an opportunity to get out of this house, even if I’m dressed like a clown.

I walk down the stairs, and Emilia is already waiting by the door, looking like she just stepped out of a chic catalog. She’s wearing a long, sleek coat, too refined for the beach.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re dressed for a beach day, right?” My voice is a mixture of sarcasm and disbelief.

Emilia shoots me a grin, flipping the coat’s collar. “I usually get cold,” she says with a nonchalant shrug, “but I’ll take this off at the beach.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the irritation rise in my chest. So now I’m supposed to be the odd one out? Fantastic.

We step outside, and the car is already waiting for us. I sit beside her, feeling the air-conditioned discomfort of the car, the seat cooler than I expected. I can’t stop my fingers from tapping restlessly on my lap. The minutes pass, and the car rolls through the gates of the mansion, the familiar landscape blurring as we head out.

The drive is silent, except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional muttered complaint from me about the outfit. Thirty minutes of awkward tension later, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, neoclassical building. I squint through the tinted windows and push my sunglasses down slightly to take in the grand entrance.

“What is this?” I ask, suddenly uneasy, my stomach tightening. The museum is nothing like I expected. The elegant stone pillars, the expensive glass doors—it screams high society.

Emilia looks at me, not bothering to hide her smirk. “It’s a fundraiser, remember?” She flips open her coat and slips it off, revealing a sleek, understated outfit underneath. A tailoreddress that hugs her toned frame perfectly. She reaches into the back of the car, pulling out a designer handbag.

I swear under my breath, a cursed laugh slipping out as I realize what’s happened.

She tricked me.

She planned for me to show up looking like a fool, in my ridiculous beach outfit, while she’s dressed like she’s ready to take over the world.

I grip the door handle tightly, my nails digging into the cold metal. As I step out of the car, I feel all eyes on me. The stares are like daggers, sharp and critical, glancing at my net top showing my bra, the long skirt that doesn’t quite fit the vibe, and my oversized sunglasses.

Emilia sashays ahead, walking with such dignity that it’s almost too much to watch. She looks back at me, her lips curling into a mocking smile, before she leans toward a group of women near the entrance. I catch a few words before I turn away.

“I told her it was inappropriate, but she just wasn’t having it. I am so embarrassed. Please, don’t judge her.”

The words hit me like a punch, and my chest tightens. Embarrassed? I’m embarrassing now? I force my hands to stop shaking, to hold myself together.

Breathe.

I inhale slowly, forcing my anger down as a guide steps forward, his smile far too polished for comfort. He gestures for me to follow. I can’t bring myself to look at him, or the women standing there in glaring outfits that could buy entire countries.

I let the guide lead me into the museum.

I step into the hall, and it’s impossible not to feel the weight of the room pressing down on me. Gigantic white walls stretch up to the high ceiling, the space soaring like something out of a museum, too pristine, too perfect to be real. The chandeliers hanging from above are so ornate, it’s like they were designed to blind you with their splendor.

At the front, the children from the orphanage are seated in neat rows, their eyes wide and curious, and I can feel their gaze on me before I even step forward. The nuns stand behind them, their posture straight, their eyes unblinking.

And then there are the ladies—the ones who make up this world I’ve apparently been part of. As they walk in, the whispers begin, the subtle hum of gossip filling the air.

“I heard she was in the hospital….”

“She went crazy after her father died….”

“I heard her husband avoids her like a plague…. Now I understand.”

“She is so arrogant, she doesn’t care about anything.”

---