The morning air at Rosewood felt like a cold blanket. As Maya stepped out of the black SUV, she adjusted the strap of her bag and took a deep breath. She had spent the entire night convincing herself that the thuds and chills from the day before were just her tired mind playing tricks.
"Just a house, Maya," she muttered, sliding the heavy brass key into the lock. "It's just wood, stone, and a very big paycheck."
Since she had finished with the living main living room the day before, she decided to move deeper into the manor. She walk pass the watchful eyes of the family portrait and climbed the grand staircase. The wooden steps groaned under her boots, the sound echoing through the hollow entrance hall.
She pushed open a heavy set of double doors at the end of the second-floor gallery and stopped dead.
Unlike the living room, which felt like a dusty tomb, this room was perfect. It was as if time had simply refused to enter. There was no thick layer of dust, no moth-eaten sheets, and none of the heavy, suffocating energy she had felt downstairs. Instead, the room felt warm, filled with a surreal, soft energy that made the hair on Maya's arms stand up—not in fear, but in wonder.
It was clearly a woman's room. The walls were a soft, faded cream, decorated with delicate gold molding. Ornaments of fine porcelain sat on the mantelpiece, and a large, ornate vanity mirror stood in the corner, its glass still sparkling.
Maya began her work, her movements careful and respectful. She started sorting through the smaller items, tagging silver brushes and crystal perfume bottles that still held a faint, ghostly scent of jasmine.
"Someone really loved this room," Maya said aloud, her voice sounding surprisingly steady in the quiet space.
She moved toward a large, walk-in cupboard built into the wall. When she pulled the doors open, she gasped. It was filled with ladies' clothes from a different era—ancient, gothic designs made of heavy silks and intricate lace.
Maya reached out, her fingers running over a particular gown made of deep emerald velvet. The fabric felt like water against her skin, cool and expensive. She had seen high-end fashion in the city, but nothing like this.
This is going to auction for a fortune, she thought. Rich people would kill for a piece of history this well-preserved.
She continued her work, moving toward a small, cherry-wood nightstand. When she pulled open the top drawer, she found it mostly empty, except for a single silver frame lying face down. Curious, she picked it up and turned it over.
A gorgeous woman smiled back at her. She wore a bright floral gown, her hair pinned up in soft curls, and her eyes held a spark of joy that seemed to light up the entire frame. She looked like she belonged to the sunlight, a sharp contrast to the dark, brooding atmosphere of the rest of Rosewood.
Maya stared at the photo for a long moment, feeling a strange tug in her chest. The woman looked happy—genuinely happy. Seeing nothing else of value in the drawer, Maya gently placed the frame back down and closed it.
The hours bled into each other as Maya worked. By the time she checked her watch, it was nearly 5:00 PM. Her back ached, but she felt a sense of accomplishment. She packed her tools and headed back downstairs to meet her driver.
But as she stepped back into the main living room, she froze.
Her expert eye immediately caught the changes . Yesterday, she had organized the velvet sofas and the heavy armchairs into perfect, straight lines for the inventory photos. Now, they were off. The sofa had been shifted an inch to the left. A side table was turned at an angle it hadn't been in that morning.
It wasn't a big change, but was noticable and for someone whose job was to notice details, it was screaming at her.she didn't need to be told twice
"Marcus?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly.
No answer. Only the silence of the house, which now felt as quiet and heavy as a graveyard.
"Mr. Clarke?" she tried again, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Still nothing. The feeling of eyes watching her—the one she had tried to dismiss as her imagination—came back with a vengeance. She felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. Someone had been in here. Someone had moved the furniture while she was upstairs.
She didn't wait another second. She fumbled for her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she hit the number she had saved the night before.
The line clicked open on the third ring. "Yes?" Kevin's voice was a low, distracted rumble.
"Mr. Clarke? I think... I think somebody else is in your house," Maya said, her voice shaking as she hurried toward the front door. "The furniture in the living room... it's not how I left it this morning. Something moved them."
There was a sharp silence on the other end of the line. Maya didn't wait for him to respond; she pushed through the front doors and ran into the cool evening air, not stopping until she reached the iron gates.
"I am coming," Kevin said, his voice suddenly sharp and alert. "Wait at the front. Do not go back inside."
The line went dead.
In the city, Kevin Clarke didn't think twice. He grabbed his keys, ignored Marcus calling after him about a meeting, and ran to his silver sports car. He pushed the engine to its limit, weaving through traffic and speeding toward the outskirts of the city.
His mind was a whirlwind of dark thoughts. Rosewood was supposed to be empty. He had the only keys besides the ones he gave Maya and Marcus.
When the car finally come to an halt in front of the manor gates, he saw Maya. She was standing by the stone pillar, her arms wrapped around herself, looking small against the backdrop of the towering, jagged house.
He stepped out of the car, his face a mask of cold fury and hidden concern.
"Maya," he said, using her name for the first time. "What exactly did you see?"
Maya looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I didn't see anyone, Mr. Clarke. But I know my work. I spent hours yesterday aligning that furniture. "Someone must have pushed them".
Kevin looked past her at the dark windows of the manor. The sun was setting, casting the building in a bloody orange light.
"Stay here," Kevin commanded, his jaw set tight.
"You're going in there alone?" Maya asked, taking a step toward him. "What if there is someone dangerous in there"? perhaps a thief"? or a ghost?
"There is no ghost ,It's my house," Kevin replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Nothing happens in there without my permission."
He walked toward the front door, looking tall and imposing. Maya watched him, feeling a mix of fear and a weird urge to follow him.She had spent the day in a room full of beautiful clothes and a smiling woman. but now she just wants to go home.
Kevin pushed the door open. The house swallowed him.
Inside, the silence was heavy. He walked straight to the living room and stopped. He saw exactly what Maya meant. The furniture was shifted. It was subtle, it was obvious.
But there was no sign of anybody,He walked to few rooms and came to the living room .
He walked over to the family portrait and stared at the father, the mother, and the unsmiling kids and stared at it.
Suddenly, he heard a light footstep. He spun around, hands balled into fists—only to find Maya standing in the doorway, her flashlight trembling.
"I told you to stay outside," he hissed, though he didn't sound as angry as he should have.
"I couldn't just let you walk into a dark house by yourself," she said, stepping in. "Besides, I'm the liquidator. If there's a anybody here, it's messing with my stats."
Kevin looked at her—really looked at her. She was covered in dust, her hair was a disaster, and she was clearly terrified.
"There is nobody here or ghost, Miss Rush," he said, turning back to the room. "Just memories that don't know how to stay buried."
He walked to the sofa that had been moved. He reached under the frame, his fingers searching. He pulled out a small, brass coin that hadn't been there before. He stared at it, his face going pale.
"What is it?" Maya asked, getting closer.
Kevin closed his hand over the coin, hiding it. "Nothing. It's just junk."
He turned to her, his eyes going back to that icy, arrogant look. "The driver is almost here. Go home, Maya. And tomorrow... stay out of the living room."get the job done as soon as possible".
"But—"
"That's an order," he snapped.