Now that we're here, let's be open about it. I leaned forward, the polished wooden table catching the soft amber glow of the grand chandelier above. Shadows danced across the leather-bound book resting beside a broad-brimmed hat, as if the objects themselves were waiting for this very moment. We have what the poet left for our hotel.
The unreleased poem was more than just a manuscript; it was a fragment of a soul, a confession that had been paused in time. The poet had left it behind out of a strange sense of guilt, a remorse over unpaid hotel fees. But the poem—titled Nostalgia—was not about debts or bills. It was about yearning, the ache of memory, and the quiet, untold stories of a homeland left behind. The very air of the Serenity Hotel seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the moment when the words would finally speak.
My gaze met the older gentleman's, the hotel manager, whose posture and calm demeanor commanded respect. His eyes, sharp yet weary, betrayed a subtle curiosity. This was no ordinary business matter. This was history, memory, and art converging in one fragile moment.
"I didn't really intend to at first…" I admitted, letting a small, deliberate smile brush my lips. Yet I knew this was the right course. Let's release it to the public.
The manager responded with a measured "Oh." He paused, weighing the gravity of my decision, and then spoke carefully: "The line in the poem that says 'In this beautiful hotel', should be good enough for us." He understood that, beyond its artistic merit, the poem carried a direct tribute to our establishment. I nodded, my mind already weaving the threads of what would come next.
Display it in the gallery of the hotel… I envisioned the leather-bound manuscript, framed with elegance, illuminated softly as visitors entered the space. …and allow not only our guests, but the public to come and read it. This would elevate the Serenity Hotel beyond luxury; it would become a cultural landmark, a destination for both art lovers and travelers alike.
Next, I turned to publicity. Inform all the newspapers… including Mackin and every other outlet. The media needed to take notice. Let them write whatever they want… I didn't care if their words twisted or sensationalized the story; as long as attention was drawn, the poem would finally reach the world.
The Last Masterpiece of the Poet, Nostalgia, and the World through His Eyes!
Serenity Hotel Praised for Its Beauty! People's Interest and Curiosity are Growing!
Natia Dali's Unreleased Last Poem! On Display at the Serenity Hotel!
The headlines would roar, drowning the memory of unpaid fees in the brilliance of his final creation. The only rule I set for the press was non-negotiable: …BUT ONLY IF THEY PROMISE NOT TO WRITE A SINGLE LINE OF THE POEM IN THEIR ARTICLES. The poem itself had to remain sacred, a private reason to visit, a reward for those who entered the hotel and allowed themselves to feel its melancholy.
And then, a whisper of thought, delicate and almost ghostly, struck me—born from the very soul of the poet himself. He had been an immigrant in Meuracevia, a man haunted by the absence of his homeland. His poem, Nostalgia, was a lament, a bridge across the distance between then and now, here and there.
And tell the hotel perfumer to change the scent in the lobby and gallery temporarily. I wanted the visitors' senses to accompany their eyes, to breathe the atmosphere of the poet's longing.
Hmm… let's go with something like morning mist, the quiet scent of trees, or the stillness of a forest. Something calm, reflective… I imagined the gentle, introspective air of the poem filling the room, soft and subtle. Not the lively, refreshing floral notes we currently used, but a fragrance that whispered solitude, the kind that invites the mind to wander, to remember, to feel. The entire space would become an extension of Nostalgia, and for a few hours, the hotel itself would embody the soul of the poet, a living echo of his quiet ache.
"Sure, I'll let them know," the manager responded, his voice steady but tinged with new energy. He was referring to the change in the scent profile—my vision of transforming the entire hotel atmosphere into something softer, gentler, introspective. Already, the air felt different. Cooler. More still. A faint note of damp earth and pine threaded through the lobby, grounding the space as though a quiet morning forest had taken root inside the marble hallways.
The scent eased the mind, but it also sharpened the reality of the hotel's most pressing issue.
I exhaled slowly and brought up the topic both of us had been avoiding.
"And… what should we do about the empty suites? Since there was an incident in one of them…"
The suite where the poet had died had become more than infamous—it had become taboo. Guests whispered. Travelers avoided it. The reservation sheets bore the damage.
The manager lowered his gaze. "Yes… the rooms connected to that floor have been almost impossible to fill."
"I know." My voice was calm, but my mind was already three steps ahead. "I'll try inviting a lady I know."
He blinked. "A lady?"
"A very influential guest," I clarified. "Someone whose presence can shift public sentiment overnight."
I had someone perfectly in mind: a socialite known for turning every place she visited into a trend. If she stayed in our suite—that suite—the narrative would change. People followed her tastes like a compass.
But that was only part of my plan.
"Before that, though… I need some small dolls. Can you find a factory for them?"
The manager froze. "Pardon? Do you mean a toy factory?"
"Yes." I didn't hesitate. "I'm planning on offering welcome toys to guests who stay in our suites."
His eyes widened a fraction—an expression I rarely saw from him. But he understood: this wasn't about a toy. It was about image, desire, and creating something irresistible.
And so, the plan was set in motion.
Within days, I had overseen every detail myself. Two plush Serenity Bears sat proudly on the pristine white marble table in my office—one a warm chestnut brown, the other a delicate cream. Their tiny gold-accented uniforms bore the elegant "S" emblem, their stitched smiles soft and inviting.
They weren't merely gifts. They were icons waiting to happen.
When my invited guest—the socialite herself—held the bears at a private gathering, her slender fingers cradling them with genuine delight, the ripple effect began instantly.
"That lady really likes our hotel… and she's admired by so many," someone whispered nearby, eyes sparkling with intrigue.
More voices followed like sparks catching wind.
"You know how staying at the Serenity is always popular among socialites," another murmured, clutching her friend's arm. "Now that there's a limited stuffed toy…"
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a dangerous secret.
"…people will flock to get one."
A status symbol had been born.
The shift happened faster than any of us expected.
One moment, the lobby was peaceful, bathed in the cool, forest-like scent I'd chosen.
The next—
RING! RING! RING!
The sound of phones rang out sharply, echoing off the marble floors like a mad chorus. Staff members flinched, startled. The reservations office had descended into chaos.
Inside, telephones were practically dancing on their cradles.
"Oh my! What is going on?" a staff member cried, hurrying between desks.
RING!
"We do offer welcome toys to guests who stay in our suites," the reservations attendant explained into one receiver, doing her best to remain composed.
RING!
A sharp, breathless voice came through another line. "Do you have any suites available? Is it true—do you really give out those stuffed bears?"
"I'm very sorry," the attendant answered politely, though her voice strained under the weight of demand. "But we have no suites available at the moment."
RING! RING! RING!
The ringing grew so constant it was like a triumphant symphony—each chime a proof of victory.
Once avoided, once whispered about, once empty…
The suites were now the most coveted rooms in the entire city.
All because of an unreleased poem.
The brass telephone felt cool against my ear, its ornate design catching the golden afternoon light pouring through my window. I held it delicately, as though the news flowing through the line were something fragile—something that needed to be savored.
"Yes, Uncle Logan. I saw the news."
My eyes dropped to the newspaper on my lap. The front page was dominated by sweeping headlines about Nostalgia—Natia Dali's final, unreleased poem. Reports described crowds lining up outside the Serenity Hotel at dawn, desperate for a glimpse of the legendary work… or a chance at one of the coveted Serenity Bears.
"I read that we have too many guests, so we had to restrict the number of people," I said, though I already knew the answer. It was always better to let the manager confirm it himself—it gave him pride, and it helped me measure the tone of his confidence.
His voice crackled back through the receiver, bright with breathless joy.
"That's right, Lady Serena. Oh—dear me—I'm terribly sorry you had to see all that in the newspaper first. I should have contacted you, but we were overwhelmed with… well… everything."
I could almost imagine him wiping sweat from his brow while grinning like a child with a secret.
"It's okay. This is a good thing," I assured him, letting a small, satisfied smile lift my lips. My plan had unfolded beautifully—better than even I had dared hope.
"Not only are the citizens of the kingdom visiting to see Natia Dali's last work," he continued eagerly,
"but we have quite a number of foreign guests as well. The news spread much farther than we expected thanks to all the articles."
The articles I had orchestrated.
The secrecy I had imposed on the poem's contents.
The exclusivity I had carefully woven into every detail.
It all worked.
"We don't have any empty rooms as of now," he continued, "and we're receiving reservation inquiries for next year. Next year, Lady Serena!"
I listened in calm silence as he went on, exhilarated:
"And the stuffed toys are unbelievably popular right now because of that lady you mentioned—the socialite. Even our standard rooms are fully booked since we started giving out the smaller toys for those stays."
My gaze drifted to the neat line of bears on my desk—each one a perfect symbol of luxury and charm. They'd become a collection: midnight blue for the executive floors, soft blush pink for couples, ivory white for international suites, and so on.
I had personally approved each variation.
"We handed out the stuffed toys to our staff yesterday," I reminded him gently. "They deserved it. And the reaction was wonderful. You should have seen how happy they were. These toys have given everyone more energy than any staff meeting could."
His voice brightened even more. "Everything is going great now! All thanks to your—"
CLICK.
His praise was cut off abruptly as another line intercepted the call.
A woman's voice burst in—sharp, desperate.
"So when is the next available reservation for a suite or a standard room? And if everything is full—then why not sell the toys separately?!"
The attendant at the front desk responded with newfound elegance—the firm politeness of someone representing a fully booked, high-demand establishment.
"I'm very sorry, ma'am. The toys are exclusive benefits for staying guests. We are not selling them separately."
The woman groaned with frustration.
Her desire was the sweetest kind of advertising.
Before I could return to the previous call, another line lit up. The phone rang again, voice switching with it.
A man—authoritative, deep, unmistakably familiar—spoke next.
Mr. Iansa.
A senior board member. A strict one. A man who did not give compliments lightly.
"Yes, Lady Iansa. You heard the news."
His tone was composed, but I detected a hint of satisfaction.
He must have been speaking to my uncle, confirming the matter.
"As you already know, we had an unfortunate incident at the hotel… but Serena handled it remarkably well."
Hearing him say it out loud—remarkably well—was a quiet victory.
My position was not only secure; it was strengthened.
Before I could respond, the line crackled again—another interruption—
and the hotel manager's anxious voice returned:
"Alright, then…! Oh—no, not again—!"
He was being bombarded by calls from important figures, journalists, and desperate would-be guests.
But I simply leaned back in my chair, calm and composed.
My eyes drifted back to the bears—the little soldiers of charm and marketing brilliance.
They weren't dolls.
They were proof.
Proof that I had taken a tragedy…
turned it into a phenomenon…
and transformed the Serenity Hotel from a place with a dark rumor
into the most desirable destination in the entire kingdom.
My lips curved into a serene, confident smile.
Everything was exactly as I intended.
The Serenity Hotel had undergone a miraculous transformation—a rebirth so complete it felt almost mythic. The grand façade, once darkened by rumor and whispered scandal, now glowed under the warm kiss of the afternoon sun. Strands of soft yellow petals floated gently in the breeze, drifting down from arrangements hung above the entrance like blessings. What had been a grim reminder of a tragedy now stood as a radiant shrine—a place where people came not to gossip, but to mourn, cherish, and honor the poet who had unknowingly changed its destiny.
Luxury black cars lined the curb in immaculate rows. Chauffeurs opened doors with practiced grace, releasing an endless procession of wealthy patrons, literary admirers, foreign dignitaries, and curious socialites who wanted to say they were there. Photographers snapped pictures. Journalists mingled with scholars. Even ordinary citizens came, forming queues that wrapped around the block, all eager to step inside the place where Natia Dali had written his final breath of poetry.
The hotel, once quiet and bleeding losses, now pulsed with life.
My strategy had not only worked—it had exceeded every reasonable expectation.
Inviting the journalists—arming them with only the story, stripped of the poem's lines—had ignited exactly the frenzy I wanted. What should have been damaging scandal became fuel. Buzz became reverence. And then reverence became profit.
The limited-edition Serenity Bears had turned into must-have collectibles, each one selling out the moment a new color was released for a different room tier. The income more than compensated for our earlier losses, and the once-avoided suites were now symbols of exclusivity and prestige.
A phone call confirmed what I already sensed in the atmosphere—the board's attitude had changed entirely.
"I am thinking of gradually handing over the management of the hotel to Serena," Mr. Iansa said, his deep voice crackling with pride, "and that will bring many changes to the hotel."
To hear such an admission from him—a conservative, rigid man—was nothing short of revolutionary.
Another call, this time from an older woman in the family, offered warmth rather than formality.
"Yes, Sui told me… that Serena is eating and sleeping well these days."
Her tone was gentle, almost relieved.
"I also heard that she's adjusting well to the job and that she's actually enjoying it."
And she was right.
I was enjoying it. Terribly, deliciously so.
Success had become a rhythm—one I danced to effortlessly. Not from luck, but from noticing the small, often overlooked details that shaped the guest experience.
This sensitivity hadn't escaped Mr. Iansa either.
"I was told that she's been making changes to certain elements of the hotel that she's discovered through her sharp personality."
He said it proudly, almost possessively, as if he were the one who had trained me.
I now held regular review meetings. On this particular morning, I sat elegantly on a plush velvet sofa, a stack of white towels resting in my lap. My fingertip traced the edge of the fabric. It scratched. Only slightly—but enough.
"The towels are a little coarse. Let's switch to something softer."
A soft hotel must feel soft. Otherwise, luxury was only an illusion.
I squeezed the towel again.
"It's the small things like this that determine the quality of our hotel—and whether people return or not."
The staff nodded vigorously.
"Also… let's increase the size of the hotel logo."
Brand recognition mattered.
Triumphs deserved to be marked visibly.
Next came the amenities.
"I heard the results from the trial sets are very good," I said.
A staff member presented two different sets of soaps and lotions.
"Our test results show that guests preferred this set over the other one."
I lifted the older soap, sniffed it—then recoiled internally.
"This was what we used all this time?"
The scent was gaudy, cheap, reminiscent of a budget inn trying too hard.
"Switch the soap immediately. It smells so tacky!"
"Yes, ma'am!" the attendant said, scrambling to store it away.
Then came a more refined matter: catering for VIPs attending the gallery exhibit of Nostalgia.
"This is the wine we provide with the lamb course," the sommelier explained.
I considered it. Wine was classic, but trends were shifting. People wanted something lighter, celebratory, photogenic.
"Wine is nice… but people prefer champagne these days. It's ideal for a light drink."
I tapped the rim of a crystal flute thoughtfully.
"Let's prepare champagne as well."
They scribbled notes. No one questioned me. No one hesitated.
I had become the pulse of the Serenity Hotel.
My vision, my instincts, my desire for perfection—
this is what had saved it.
And as I looked out over the busy lobby, filled with guests, petals, foreign languages, flashing cameras, and laughter…
I knew one thing with absolute certainty:
The future of the Serenity Hotel was no longer uncertain.
It was luminous.
And it was in my hands.
The sommelier nodded and hurried off to make the adjustments, leaving me alone with the gleaming rows of bottles—ruby reds, deep ambers, and pale golds. I let my fingers brush over the polished labels. Each bottle represented a choice, an experience… and now, a responsibility.
Taking over the Serenity Hotel wasn't just about luxury. It was about inheriting a legacy layered with history, whispers, and unspoken alliances. The old owner's words echoed faintly in my mind even though I hadn't heard them—only felt the shifting energy in the halls as control passed into my hands. A serenity that takes after Serena… I wondered what she truly meant. Was serenity something one inherited, or something one built out of chaos?
A soft chime sounded from my phone. A message—from Uncle Logan.
"Come to the Executive Lounge. There's something you should see."
His messages were always succinct, but this one carried the weight of something more. Something tied to whatever the old owner had referenced… and whatever he hadn't dared tell me outright.
I exited the cellar and made my way through the curved marble corridor. The hotel was quiet at this hour, its luxury glowing softly under golden sconces. Guests would describe this as peace. But beneath the surface, I felt movement—like shifting tectonic plates.
The glass doors of the Executive Lounge parted with a soft hiss. Uncle Logan stood near the panoramic window, hands clasped behind him, gazing out at the city lights glittering like scattered jewels.
He turned as I approached.
"You're making changes quickly," he said, half approving, half warning. "Good changes. Necessary ones."
"I have to," I replied simply. "The hotel is… waking up. I can feel it."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then it's time you understood what you've inherited."
He gestured toward the low table. Spread across it were eight sealed envelopes—each stamped with a different crest. Some elegant. Some severe. Some old enough that the wax was cracked.
My breath caught.
"These are—?"
"The eight families," he finished. "Their agreements, their debts, their demands. Everything the old owner never resolved." He paused. "Everything that will eventually come knocking on your door."
A heaviness pressed onto my shoulders—not fear, but the sharp awareness of a storm at the horizon.
"And you're telling me this now?" I asked.
"Because they know you've taken over," he said simply. "And because your decisions—yes, even about towels and champagne—signal to them who you're becoming."
I looked at the envelopes, each one silently daring me to open it.
"To run Serenity," he continued, lowering his voice, "you must understand that it is not just a hotel. It is neutral territory. Sanctuary. A symbol. And every family wants a piece of what it represents."
Outside, the city lights flickered like warning signals.
I exhaled slowly. "Then I'll deal with them. One at a time."
Uncle Logan studied me for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes—pride, maybe. Or worry.
"Good," he murmured. "Because the first of them has already arrived."
He nodded toward the far end of the lounge. I turned—and froze.
A man stood there, tall, poised, a shadow cast over half his face. His presence was cold and commanding, like a winter storm wearing a tailored suit.
And on the breast of that suit, pinned discreetly, was one of the crests from the envelopes.
The first of the Eight Families.
Watching me.
Waiting.
Smiling slightly, as though he had been expecting me all along.
Sui set the toy sketches down gently, as though afraid the sudden shift in atmosphere might disturb them.
Her hands folded neatly in front of her. "Sir Eiser said…" she began carefully, "that he would like to request a meeting with you. Today, if possible."
My fingers tightened around the pencil I had been using. The end snapped with a soft crack, graphite breaking under the pressure.
Today.
Of course he would choose today. Three days had passed since that encounter in the Executive Lounge with the man bearing the first family's crest. Three days of silence from Eiser—silence that, from someone like him, was equivalent to a thunderstorm gathering behind the mountains.
"Did he say what it was regarding?" I asked quietly.
"No, my lady. Only that it concerns 'the upcoming negotiations.' And…" Sui hesitated.
"And?"
"He asked that I tell you this: 'She should be prepared.'"
Prepared.
The words hit like the slam of a vault door.
My toy sketches—my bunny in a gown, the bear with tiny eyes—suddenly felt like artifacts from another life, a softer world existing inside the walls of Serenity Hotel while the outside world sharpened its knives.
I let out a controlled breath. "I see."
Sui gave a small bow. "Should I tell him you will see him, Lady Serena?"
For a moment, I didn't answer. I stared at the half-finished design of the bunny—its gown flowing in pencil lines, its face round and innocent. The part of me that created this—the soft, nurturing instinct—felt miles away from the part of me that had just been summoned to a battlefield disguised as a meeting room.
But I could not flinch. Not now.
I placed the sketch down with deliberate care and rose from my chair.
"Yes," I said, the firmness in my tone returning, steady and clear. "Tell Sir Eiser I'll meet him."
"In the usual room?"
"No." I glanced toward the window, where the hotel towered gracefully over the quiet city. "Tell him… I'll meet him in the Jade Conference Suite."
Sui's eyes widened just a touch. The Jade Suite wasn't for casual meetings. It was the negotiation chamber used for dealings with the highest-ranking patrons—and, historically, for mediating conflicts between families under the Sanctuary Treaty.
It was a room that changed the tone of every conversation held inside it.
"As you wish," Sui murmured, bowing again before leaving the office with swift steps.
The door clicked shut. Silence settled.
I leaned against the edge of my desk, feeling the exhaustion tug at me again—the bone-deep kind that came not from lack of sleep but from carrying the weight of too many roles at once.
Toy designer. Hotel heir. Mediator between ancient families. Strategist. Public figure. Woman who must never show weakness.
"Prepared, huh?" I muttered under my breath.
In the quiet, the bunny sketch stared back at me as if offering encouragement.
I squared my shoulders.
"Let him come."
Sui hurried behind me as I strode down the corridor, the polished marble floors reflecting the soft evening lights. The serenity of the hotel—my serenity—felt strangely distorted now, as if the very air chilled at the mention of a secret hidden within the poem.
A secret I had unknowingly put on public display.
Why would a poet hide something in his final, unfinished work?
Why now?
Why did Eiser care?
My heels clicked sharply, each step punctuated by the whirl of possibilities spinning through my mind.
We reached the elevator. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and Sui pressed the button for the gallery floor. As the elevator began its descent, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls—eyes sharpened, posture tense, all traces of the soft, enthusiastic toy designer erased within seconds.
The doors opened.
The hallway was quiet; the rush of daytime visitors had faded, leaving the gallery bathed in a gentle glow. The last poem of Natia Dali—Nostalgia—hung under a glass enclosure at the far end, illuminated like a sacred artifact.
And standing before it, hands folded behind his back, was Eiser.
He did not turn at the sound of my steps. "You arrived quickly," he said, voice cool, controlled, yet unmistakably heavy with meaning.
I approached, stopping a few feet behind him. "You summoned me," I replied, matching his tone. "Sui said you believe the poet's last poem has a secret."
Now he turned.
Those piercing blue eyes assessed me the way someone examines a weapon before deciding whether to sharpen it further or lock it away.
"Yes," he said simply. "A secret the public must never see."
My pulse kicked. "Then why did you call me here, of all people?"
He gestured toward the framed poem. "Because you released it," he said. No anger. No accusation. A plain, objective fact—yet somehow that made it worse. "And because you…" he paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "will have to be the one to deal with the consequences."
A chill dripped down my spine.
Consequences.
"For saving the hotel?" I asked, half in challenge, half in genuine confusion.
"For exposing a message not meant for the world," he corrected. "Look closely, Lady Serena."
He stepped aside.
I approached the glass.
The poem was familiar—I had practically memorized it. The melancholic strokes, the lonely imagery, the faint ink marks suggesting hesitation in the poet's final days. But then—
Eiser's voice slid behind me, low and precise.
"He didn't write it alone."
"What?" I turned sharply.
"The handwriting," he said. "Two people wrote this. The poet… and someone else."
My breath froze.
Because now that he'd named it, I could see it—the shift in pressure, the slight change in slant, barely noticeable unless one knew exactly what to look for.
"This part," he indicated a faint, almost fragmented line near the end, "was added later. And not by him."
Shock rippled through me.
"Then who?"
Eiser's eyes locked onto mine with a gravity that made the air thicken.
"That," he said, "is what the eight families are trying to find out. And why the poem cannot stay public."
My mouth went dry. "You're saying this is connected to them?"
"Yes," he answered. "To the very conflict you've only heard whispers about."
The gallery felt unbearably quiet.
The poet's death.
The scandal.
The sudden disappearance of his estate.
And now… a hidden message written by an unknown hand.
I struggled to steady my voice. "So what do you want from me?"
Eiser stepped closer—close enough that I felt the intensity of the weight he carried, the burden that was somehow about to become my own.
"You're the one who unveiled it to the world," he said softly. "Now you must help me contain what follows."
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding with a mix of dread and the unshakable feeling that the ground beneath Serenity Hotel—my hotel—had finally begun to shift.
"Tell me everything," I whispered.
Eiser's expression darkened.
"I intend to."
"A place where everything changed."
The words lingered in the quiet gallery, almost heavier than the poem itself.
My breath caught—not out of fear, but recognition. I had heard phrases like that before… buried in hushed conversations, exchanged between older members of the family after formal dinners, spoken with that oppressive reverence reserved only for tragedies people refuse to name.
I searched Eiser's face. "What place?" I demanded.
Eiser didn't answer immediately. Instead, he unfolded the paper he had brought, pressing it flat against the glass of the frame so that his annotated copy overlapped perfectly with the original.
The poem's lines—delicate, melancholic strokes—became overlaid with Eiser's neat, decisive markings. Circles. Arrows. Numeric notations.
"This part," he said, tapping the corner where the ink changed pressure, "was not written by the poet."
The ink there was slightly darker, applied more heavily, the stroke less graceful.
"The added phrase: 'where the sun first stopped shining.' That's the clue."
A small frown tugged at my mouth. "That sounds metaphorical."
"It isn't," he said coolly. "It's geographical."
Sui and I exchanged a startled glance.
Eiser continued. "It's an old phrase—the kind used in political records and private correspondences during the kingdom's transition era. Only the eight families used it."
A cold pulse ran down my spine.
The eight families.
The same eight families Uncle Logan and the former owner had spoken of with regret and secrecy. The same eight families tied to the mysterious 'matter' they never resolved. The same eight families whose history somehow intertwined with the Serenity Hotel.
"You're telling me," I said slowly, "this poem isn't just about his loneliness… but about them?"
"That's precisely what I'm telling you."
He stepped closer to the poem again, lowering his voice.
"And the place he refers to—a place where the sun stopped shining—is the site of the old incident."
My heartbeat thudded against my ribs.
No one talked openly about the incident.
No one.
"Eiser," I said, my voice steady despite the storm forming in my chest, "that site has been sealed for decades. It's off-limits to the public. Even the royal archivists don't have full access to the records."
He nodded. "Which is why the poet's involvement is… concerning. Especially considering he never had clearance."
"And now his poem is displayed publicly," I murmured.
Displayed
Advertised
Celebrated
Sold as an attraction
Marketed as nostalgia
A tourist magnet—
A shiver rolled through me.
"If this poem exposes something we shouldn't know," Eiser said, cutting through my spiraling thoughts, "the eight families will not stay silent."
My eyes snapped to his.
"You mean they'll blame the hotel."
"Worse," he said softly. "They'll blame you."
The impact hit like a weight.
I straightened my spine. "So what do we do?"
Eiser met my gaze head-on.
"We find out what the poet discovered," he said. "And we determine whether that added line was a warning… or a threat."
I exhaled slowly, my resolve hardening.
The Serenity Hotel had risen under my management.
If it was now standing on a sleeping faultline of old family secrets—then I needed to expose the ground beneath my feet before it opened under me.
And Eiser knew it.
He folded the annotated printout and slipped it back into his jacket.
"There is one more thing," he added.
I stiffened. "What?"
"That phrase—'where the sun first stopped shining'…"
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
"…is the coded name for a ruined estate. The estate belonging to the ninth family."
I blinked.
"Ninth?" I repeated. "There were only eight."
Eiser's expression darkened.
"There were nine," he said quietly. "Before the ninth was erased."
A chill dripped down my spine like melting ice.
Erased.
Not fallen.
Not dissolved.
Erased.
"Why?" I whispered.
Eiser looked toward the poem—and when he spoke, it was barely above a breath.
"Because they were destroyed from within."
The gallery fell silent.
My heart dropped.
And for the first time since I began running the Serenity Hotel…
…I felt the shadow of something ancient stir behind my achievements.
The moment I hung up the phone, the quiet of the gallery settled back around us—but it felt different now. Charged. As if the air itself was waiting for the fallout of the decision I had just made.
Eiser exhaled slowly, a faint smirk forming on his lips. "Bold, as expected."
Bold… or reckless.
But recklessness was sometimes a form of courage, and courage was the currency of anyone who wished to rise above shadows.
Sui looked nervously between us, her fingers knotted together. "Lady Serena… the Mountain Manor is not just an abandoned ruin. It has a… a reputation."
She wasn't wrong.
For decades, the Mountain Manor had been spoken of only in fragments—rumors of exiled immigrants, burned documents, vanished families, and a final night that no historian could fully reconstruct.
A place destroyed.
A lineage erased.
A truth buried.
Exactly the kind of story the world loved to uncover.
I turned to Eiser with cool confidence. "If we are going to push this to the public, I assume you have enough information to back the story?"
Eiser's gaze sharpened. "Let me make one thing clear first." He folded the printed poem and slid it back into his coat. "The eight families will not appreciate your involvement."
My eyebrow arched. "They didn't appreciate the poem exhibit either. But they didn't stop me."
"They tolerated it," Eiser corrected without hesitation. "This—" he tapped the glass over the poet's final line "—is stepping onto a battlefield."
"And?" I asked, stepping closer. "Are you warning me, or trying to scare me off?"
"Warning you," he answered without flinching. "If the Mountain Manor becomes a public topic, it will dig up parts of history that everyone agreed to forget. Including your own family."
There it was—the implication.
That this wasn't just a hotel story.
That I was stepping into a legacy that would demand something from me.
Something costly.
I lifted my chin. "Then I'll make sure the story is told correctly."
Eiser paused, studying me for a long moment—then nodded, as though confirming something he had already suspected.
"Very well," he said quietly. "Then I'll stand with you."
The weight of those words was not lost on me.
We left the gallery, passing the velvet ropes and empty stands. The framed poem remained behind us, but the secret it held had already been unleashed.
By the time I reached the corridor, Sui hurried beside me, whispering anxiously:
"Milady… if you make the Mountain Manor public, won't that upset the families? Especially the one whose estate was destroyed?"
"Yes," I replied calmly. "But they will be more upset if someone else uncovers the truth before we do."
Sui's steps faltered. "The truth…?"
I didn't slow down. "The poet hid a message. And someone in the eight families was desperate enough to pay off his debts after his death."
Sui swallowed. "Meaning… someone wanted the poem handled quietly."
"Exactly."
I pushed open the door to my office.
The sketches of the bunny in a gown were waiting on my desk, innocent and whimsical—a sharp contrast to the storm now brewing outside these walls.
But I didn't sit.
I turned to my attendant. "Prepare the historical archives related to the manor. Everything that's been publicly released—and everything that isn't."
Sui nodded, determination replacing her fear. "Right away."
As she hurried off, I finally sank into my chair, fingertips tapping the polished wood of my desk.
The Serenity Hotel had become a beacon of rebirth.
But now…
It was becoming the center of a revelation.
And the Mountain Manor—
that forgotten ruin in the mountains—
was no longer just part of the kingdom's past.
It was my next stage.
My next triumph.
My next danger.
I reached for the phone again, issuing one final command to the PR team:
"And make the headline compelling.
Something that will shake the kingdom awake."
My voice dropped to a whisper, filled with quiet fire:
"'The Forgotten Manor of the Ninth Family—What the Poet Tried to Tell Us.''"
The kingdom would not sleep tonight.
Not after this.
The room seemed to close in around me, the soft green velvet suddenly too warm against my skin. My heartbeat echoed in my ears—loud, uneven, as if my own body couldn't decide whether to panic or leap forward.
The maid's words hovered in the air like a struck bell.
Spend the night.
With Eiser.
Alone.
My fingers curled against the armrest, trying to find something—anything—solid enough to anchor me.
Outside of the manor, without attendants, without the safety net I had always relied on…
And with him.
The maid stood perfectly still, her posture formal, but her eyes soft with concern. "Lady Serena," she repeated gently, "do you think you can go?"
The question pressed into me like a weight.
I swallowed hard.
Since childhood, someone had always been there—bathing me, dressing me, guiding me, protecting me. Even in my adult life, I had never truly stepped outside those boundaries. Even when I met Eiser, even when we worked together… it was always with chaperones, always under controlled circumstances, always within the world I could navigate with confidence.
But this—this was different.
Mountain Manor wasn't just any location. It was remote, abandoned, politically charged… and deeply tied to my family's hidden past. To go there was already a daring move.
To go there and stay overnight with Eiser…
My breath trembled.
Images flashed through my mind—Eiser's piercing gaze in the gallery, his voice close to my ear as he explained the coded poem, the way he stepped into my space not with arrogance, but with certainty.
The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
My cheeks warmed without permission.
The idea of being alone with him in such a place was terrifying.
And yet…
Somewhere beneath the fear was a flicker of something else—something dangerous, something curious, something that pulled at me like gravity.
If I refused, I would remain exactly as I always had been: protected, sheltered, unchanged.
If I went…
I would be stepping into a new chapter—not just for the Serenity Hotel, but for myself.
I lifted my chin slowly, though my fingers still trembled.
"I…"
The word stuck. I tried again, voice softer, breathier.
"I think… I need to."
The maid blinked, startled.
I continued, finding steadiness as I spoke.
"If I am to take responsibility for the Mountain Manor project… I must see it myself. And if spending a night there with Sir Eiser is necessary…" I paused, my pulse pounding at my throat. "…then I will go."
My voice dipped, almost to a whisper.
"No chaperones."
The maid inhaled sharply, but said nothing.
I exhaled shakily, placing a hand over my racing heart.
"Please prepare everything I will need," I said, trying to sound composed—even though inside me, a storm was breaking open. "And inform Sir Eiser that I will… accompany him."
The maid bowed her head.
"Yes, my lady."
As she turned to leave, I remained frozen in the green velvet chair, staring at the far wall as the reality settled over me.
Tonight, I would be alone.
With Eiser.
At the Mountain Manor.
And nothing—absolutely nothing—would be the same after this.