Anya blinked against the morning light. Restless sleep had offered little solace, her dreams a fractured collage of Blackwood's echoing halls and Clara’s chilling smile from dinner. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Sounds of a car crunching on the gravel driveway drifted up, signaling the lawyer's arrival. Her stomach twisted, a nervous knot tightening with each distant thud of footsteps below. Descending the grand staircase, Anya found Leo already in the drawing-room. He stood by the cold fireplace, his back to the room, shoulders rigid beneath his dark suit jacket. Clara, however, was perched elegantly on a velvet armchair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. She held a teacup, a delicate, antique piece, as if she belonged there, had never left. “Morning, Anya,” Clara purred, her voice sweet as poison. “Thought you might sleep through the grand event.” Ignored her. Anya chose a chair furthest from both of them, sinking into its plush, dust-scented depths. Her gaze drifted to the closed double doors. Attorney Silas Croft, a man whose reputation for precision preceded him, would be through them any moment. Footsteps approached, decisive and even. A soft knock. Croft entered, a slim, impeccably dressed man with silver-rimmed spectacles and a briefcase clutched tight. “Good morning,” Croft’s voice was crisp, formal. He nodded to each of them in turn, a brief, impersonal acknowledgment. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Settled himself at the head of the ornate mahogany table. He opened his briefcase with a practiced click, extracting a thick sheaf of parchment tied with a crimson ribbon. Anya’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Cleared his throat. “We are here today for the reading of Genevieve Thorne’s last will and testament.” He adjusted his spectacles, the lamplight glinting off the lenses. First, the usual dispositions. Minor bequests to charities, a distant cousin, the long-serving housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. Each name was read in a monotone, the words dry and official, yet each one a testament to their grandmother’s meticulous nature. Leo shifted, a barely audible sigh escaping him. Clara took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her eyes fixed on Croft. Croft continued, his voice unwavering. “To my granddaughter, Clara Thorne, I leave the sum of five million pounds, and my collection of antique porcelain dolls.” Clara’s lips curved upwards, a fleeting, almost imperceptible gesture of triumph. The dolls, Anya remembered, were something Clara had always coveted, even as a child. “To my grandson, Leonard Thorne, I leave the sum of five million pounds, and my extensive library of first edition novels.” Leo grunted, a low, dismissive sound. He hated reading. The library had always been a burden to him, a dusty mausoleum of unwanted knowledge. “And to my granddaughter, Annelise Thorne,” Croft continued, “I leave the sum of five million pounds, and my antique jewellery box, along with its contents.” Anya's breath hitched. Five million. The jewellery box. She remembered it, a lacquered black box with mother-of-pearl inlay, a secret compartment only she knew about, where Genevieve had hidden her most precious, personal letters. A strange silence descended, broken only by the distant tick of a grandfather clock in the hall. Croft paused, looking over his spectacles at the three of them. A subtle shift in his posture suggested a turn in the proceedings. “Now,” Croft stated, his voice dropping slightly, “we come to the residuary estate. This includes Blackwood Manor itself, along with all remaining assets, investments, and properties.” Anya leaned forward, a cold dread washing over her. This was it. The twist. Genevieve had always loved her dramatic flair. “It was Genevieve’s explicit wish,” Croft announced, his gaze sweeping across their faces, “that the remainder of her estate be divided equally among her three grandchildren.” Anya exhaled, a shaky, relieved breath. Fair. Equitable. What she had hoped for. “However,” Croft added, the single word hanging in the air like a guillotine blade, “this inheritance comes with a significant condition.” Leo’s head snapped up. Clara’s teacup clattered faintly against its saucer. Anya felt a sudden tightening in her chest, a premonition of disaster. “For the next month, commencing today,” Croft read, his voice devoid of any personal inflection, “all three beneficiaries — Clara Thorne, Leonard Thorne, and Annelise Thorne — must reside together within Blackwood Manor. They are not permitted to leave the premises for more than twelve hours at any given time, nor are they permitted to spend a single night away from the property.” Leo exploded. “Are you serious? A month? Trapped here with *them*?” His voice was a guttural roar, startling Mrs. Gable, who peered in from the doorway before quickly retreating. Croft remained unperturbed. “Yes, Mr. Thorne. Should any of you fail to adhere to this stipulation, or if any one of you abandons Blackwood Manor before the thirty days have elapsed, the entire residuary estate — including Blackwood Manor — will be forfeited.” “Forfeited?” Anya whispered, disbelief lacing her tone. The thought of losing everything, the very ground beneath her feet, was staggering. Blackwood. Her grandmother’s legacy. “Indeed,” Croft confirmed, closing the will with a snap. “It will be donated in its entirety to the ‘Genevieve Thorne Foundation for Neglected Gardens’.” Leo ran a hand through his hair, his face a mask of furious frustration. “She’s still manipulating us from the grave. This is insane.” Clara’s composure, for the first time, seemed to waver, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her features. But it vanished quickly, replaced by a calculating glint in her eyes. Anya’s mind raced. A month. Here. With Leo’s simmering rage and Clara’s insidious barbs. The thought was suffocating, a punishment rather than a gift. “This cannot stand,” Leo seethed, pacing the worn Persian rug. “There must be a loophole.” Shook his head. “My apologies, Mr. Thorne. The will is exceptionally clear. Ironclad. Your grandmother foresaw such attempts.” Clara’s gaze met Anya’s across the room. A slow, unsettling smile spread across her face, not one of surprise or even resignation, but something colder, more deliberate. It was a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Anya felt a chill deeper than the manor’s perpetual damp. That smile. It wasn’t a reaction to the news, but a confirmation. Had Clara known? Was this forced cohabitation part of some larger, hidden agenda? The next month at Blackwood, suddenly, felt less like a prison sentence and more like a carefully laid trap. She couldn't shake the feeling Clara was the spider. She shivered. Blackwood was not just a house; it was a stage.

Chapter 3: The Matriarch's Decree