Cassandra woke with a jolt.
Not in the east wing.
Not on the floor of the hidden library.
But in her guest room. In bed. Tucked under the plush navy comforter, silk sheets warm against her skin. A fire crackled in the hearth.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
She sat up, eyes scanning the room. Nothing looked touched. Nothing seemed off—except everything.
She remembered the journal. The bloodline.
The door slamming shut.
Julian grabbing her hand.
A voice whispering something low and cold in her ear: "You're too close, Cassandra. Turn back."
But then... nothing.
A blackout.
A time skip.
She leapt out of bed, yanked on her robe, and bolted for the hallway.
Julian's door was already open.
He stood at the threshold, rumpled and pale, hair a glorious disaster, shirt inside out.
"You too?" he said before she could speak.
"I remember the library," she said breathlessly. "The journals. The light."
"And then…" He gestured vaguely. "I woke up here. Like nothing happened."
They stared at each other.
Then, in perfect sync:
"We're not crazy, right?"
Julian rubbed a hand over his face. "If we are, we're crazy together."
Cassandra gave him a tired, crooked smile. "Romantic."
He stepped closer. "Cass, this isn't just some haunted house mystery anymore. Someone—or something—is controlling this."
"I know."
"And that means we need to start lying. To everyone."
She blinked. "Why?"
He leaned in, voice low and urgent. "Because if this house, or our parents, or whatever is behind this finds out we're onto them? We're not getting out."
She stared at him. "You think our families are involved?"
Julian hesitated. "I think two billionaire dynasties with overlapping bloodlines, secrets in the attic, and ghostly time resets aren't a coincidence."
She exhaled. "This just got very Succession: Paranormal Edition."
"I liked it better when we were fake-flirting over cocoa."
Cassandra grinned, even as her stomach churned. "We can still do that. Just now with hidden agendas."
Julian's expression shifted. "About that. The fake-flirting…"
Their eyes met.
Heat.
Unspoken things.
Then—
Bang.
The front door slammed downstairs.
Cassandra jumped. "That wasn't wind."
Julian was already moving. "Come on."
They found Elise in the foyer.
Only she wasn't alone.
Two men in black coats flanked her—identical suits, identical stoic expressions. Corporate muscle. The type who didn't smile unless someone signed something.
"Elise," Julian said, voice calm but clipped. "Care to introduce your friends?"
"They're here from the Foundation," Elise said coolly. "Routine wellness check."
Cassandra frowned. "What foundation?"
Julian answered before Elise could. "The Ashford-Beaumont Legacy Foundation. A philanthropic shell company started by both families to manage, quote, 'generational transitions.'"
Cassandra's stomach twisted. "Wait. You mean—?"
Elise smiled faintly. "Your engagement, my dear. It's not just about business. It's about protection. Of bloodlines. Of power. Of stability."
Julian stepped in front of Cassandra. "We don't need protecting."
The taller man reached into his coat.
Cassandra tensed.
He pulled out… a folder.
"Elise," Julian snapped, "don't gaslight us. We know about the journals. The family tree. The locked room in the east wing."
Elise blinked, but didn't flinch. "Ah. You remembered some of it, then. That means the serum is weakening."
Cassandra blinked. "The what?"
Elise turned to the guards. "Plan C."
Julian grabbed Cassandra's wrist. "Run."
They didn't make it far before the hallway shifted.
Literally.
Walls realigned. Doors disappeared. The floor beneath them rippled, bending space like a mirror warping under heat.
"What—what is this?" Cassandra shouted, breath ragged.
Julian yanked her into the nearest open door—an old conservatory they hadn't entered before.
He slammed it shut. Locked it.
Cassandra backed away from the glass wall, heart racing. "Did the house just… move?"
Julian's eyes were wide. "It's not the house. It's the Foundation. The legacy. This whole estate is wired. Controlled."
"Controlled how?"
"AR overlays. Hallucinogenic air systems. Psychological programming. We're living inside a real-time, generational experiment."
Cassandra froze. "Are you saying we've been drugged?"
He nodded grimly. "And tested. Observed. Our families are watching this marriage like it's a lab trial."
Cassandra's mind reeled. "So the ghosts? The flickering lights? The 'visions'—they were programmed hallucinations?"
"Not all of them." His voice darkened. "Some were real. Like the warning you heard."
She rubbed her temples. "This is insane."
Julian stepped closer, voice softer now. "So let's break the game."
"How?"
"By doing the one thing they can't predict."
Cassandra raised a brow. "Eloping to Vegas?"
He smiled. "No."
He leaned in.
"Kissing you without a script."
Then he did.
And it wasn't soft this time. It was fire meeting wind, everything crashing at once. Months of pressure, proximity, tension—exploding.
Her hands fisted in his hair. He pulled her closer. Their hearts beat wild.
Outside, the storm howled. Inside, everything felt sharper.
Real.
They broke apart, breathless.
Cassandra blinked. "Okay. That felt unscripted."
Julian looked dazed. "Yeah."
And then—another twist.
From behind a false panel in the greenhouse wall, a hidden elevator hissed open.
A figure stepped out.
A woman.
Tall. Elegant. Familiar.
Margaret Beaumont.
Cassandra's mother.
And beside her?
Julian's father.
They were smiling.
And not like parents.
Like masterminds.
Margaret stepped forward. "Children. You've done so well."
Cassandra's blood turned to ice. "Mom?"
"You've finally bonded. The serum worked."
Julian stepped in front of Cassandra again, voice like steel. "What do you mean, 'worked'?"
Margaret's smile turned razor-sharp. "You two were always destined to be more than heirs. You're the prototype."
Julian's father nodded. "Welcome to the next phase of the legacy."