As she gasped for air, her heart racing, Ophelia realized it had all been a dream. But the memory of those blood-red eyes and razor-sharp fangs lingered, sending a shiver down her spine. She threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet firmly on the ground. The plush carpet beneath her toes was a reassuring reminder of reality.
With trembling hands, Ophelia reached for her phone to check the time. The screen glowed with an incoming message from Marcus: "Sis, still waiting to hear from you. You okay?" She typed a hasty reply, trying to shake off the lingering fear: "Just woke up. Had a bad dream. I'm fine."
As she sent the message, a soft knock at the door broke the silence. Ophelia's heart skipped a beat, but the voice on the other side was unmistakable – the butler's polished tone.
"Miss Ophelia, dinner is served. Mrs. Brooks awaits your presence."
Ophelia took a deep breath, smoothing her disheveled hair. She slipped into the elegant gown hanging outside the wardrobe – the one with the note "For your convenience" – and made her way to the door. The fabric felt strange against her skin, but she pushed aside her doubts.
As she descended the stairs, the grand foyer seemed less ominous than in her dream. The candles cast a warm glow, and the shadows danced with a gentle elegance. Ophelia's confidence grew with each step.
The butler led Ophelia to the dining room, halting before the door to announce loudly, "The housekeeper has arrived." His voice echoed, followed by a deep, commanding voice from within: "Let her in."
As the butler swung open the door, Ophelia stepped into the elegantly lit room. Four figures sat around the table, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of candles. Mrs. Brooks, her employer, sat with an air of authority, beside a man who could only be Mr. Brooks. Their dark, piercing eyes seemed to share a lifeless intensity.
Across from them, two stunning young women sat poised, each appearing no older than 24. One, a brunette with porcelain skin, smiled graciously - Grace. The other, a vibrant redhead, exuded confidence and arrogance - Rebecca.
"Good evening, Brooks," Ophelia greeted with a respectful curtsey.
Mrs. Brooks barely acknowledged the greeting, her gaze lingering on Ophelia. "The dress suits you," she stated, without waiting for a response. "However, please wear it only within the premises."
With a curt tone, Mrs. Brooks continued, "This is my stepdaughter, Grace, and my daughter, Rebecca."
Ophelia mentally noted the introductions: redhead - Grace, brunette - Rebecca.
"It's an honor to meet the young ladies of Brook Home," Ophelia said, offering another polite curtsey.
Rebecca's gaze swept over Ophelia, her expression haughty and dismissive. "Welcome to our home," she said coolly, her voice dripping with condescension.
Grace, on the other hand, smiled warmly. "We're glad to have you here, Ophelia."
Mr. Brooks remained silent, his eyes fixed intently on Ophelia.
Ophelia curtsied in reply." Don't do that all tr time it's cringe." Grace said with a light voice.
Ophelia nodded silently, hesitant to speak. Mrs. Brooks continued, "As I mentioned earlier, your duties require serving the family tea precisely ten minutes after the bell rings. Afterwards, you'll have time to attend to your personal affairs until 3:45 pm, when you'll serve evening tea. Following that, you'll retire to your room, and the butler will deliver your dinner at 7:00 pm. Let me reiterate, your safety is assured from the moment the bell sounds until 4:00 pm. Do you have any questions?"
Ophelia swallowed hard, her mouth dry. "Safe from what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Rebecca snapped back with a mocking grin. "You'd do better not knowing. Just follow the rules, no questions asked."
Ophelia nodded uncertainly, her motivation anchored to the promise of a $50,000 check by weekend.
Mrs. Brooks intervened, "Caitlin will guide you on brewing the special red tea. Remember, under no circumstances are you to taste it."
Mr. Brooks reinforced the warning, his deep voice firm and authoritative. "That's crucial, Ophelia. Don't even think about taking a sip."
Ophelia nodded, complying outwardly while inwardly labeling Mr. Brooks a strict and miserly man.
Just then, the entrance door swung open.
A dark tall man walked in,the newcomer's striking features commanded attention. His deep, fiery red hair, identical to Grace's, cascaded in unruly waves across his forehead. Piercing blue eyes, sparkling with mischief and cunning, seemed to dance in the candlelight. His chiseled jawline and sharp facial contours hinted at a strong will.
Clad in a sleek black attire, he exuded an air of mystery and confidence. The fitted shirt accentuated his broad shoulders, while the tailored trousers highlighted his lean physique. A silver cufflink glinted on his wrist, the only hint of elegance in his otherwise dark ensemble.
As he strode into the room, his gaze swept across the gathering, lingering briefly on Ophelia before settling on Mrs. Brooks. A hint of a smile played on his lips, suggesting secrets shared among the family.
"Margaret, you appear particularly worn out this evening," Reginald said with a sly, condescending smirk.
Mrs. Brooks's expression remained impassive, her face a mask of practiced indifference, hinting at a long history of tolerating her stepson's biting sarcasm.
"Ophelia, this is Reginald, my stepson," she introduced, her tone measured and detached.
Reginald's smile widened, but his eyes gleamed with insincerity, sending a shiver down Ophelia's spine. "Must we bother with introductions, Margaret? The previous housekeeper's memory is still warm. Shouldn't we observe a decent mourning period?" Reginald's voice dripped with feigned concern, but the mocking undertone was unmistakable.
Ophelia breathed deeply, trying to understand the shocking news: the previous housekeeper had died. But one question haunted her: "What killed her?"
"Reginald, don't frighten her, how did it go?" Mr. Brooks said gently to his son. His voice was warm and kind.
"Everything went well, Father," Reginald replied, picking a berry from the table and eating it. For once, his voice was sincere. "I think I inherited Mother's traits "
"Finley, come escort Ms. Johnson to the kitchen. Caitlin will teach her," Mr. Brooks instructed.