Chapter 5: Historical Whispers

As sunshine streamed into the expansive penthouse on the morning following the gala, the city hummed softly in the background. The room was opulent but chilly, a far cry from the small apartments I had known as a child. Like Williams himself, there was a hint of riches around, but there was also a whisper of emptiness.

A delightful breakfast spread awaited me as I entered the dining room. Holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, Williams settled into the chair at the head of the table. I sat down opposite him, and he hardly acknowledged me.

"Sleep well?" he enquired, sounding more compelled than genuinely interested.

I lied and said, "Like a rock." In actuality, I had been wondering about Ethan, Sophia, and this strange new life I had slipped into all night.

His eyes were keen as he looked up. "All right. We have a reputation to uphold. Grace is going to take you shopping today. The board anticipates Mrs. Franklin to be polished, not He glanced at my plain top and jeans and left the sentence hanging.

Despite my anger, I bit my tongue. There would be no use in me fighting him. I reached for a piece of toast and said, "Okay."

"All right," he responded, going back to his phone.

I was drowning in silk, chiffon, and pearls by the middle of the afternoon. Williams' stern assistant, Grace, had taken me to some of Manhattan's most upscale stores. Her keen eyes analysed every aspect of my look with the accuracy of a jeweller analysing a diamond, and she was efficient without being cruel.

She held up a navy gown and added, "You'll need something for the charity gala next week." "Give it a try."

Too tired to protest, I nodded. My phone buzzed inside my purse as I stepped into the changing room. When I took it out, I discovered a message from an unidentified number:

*Are you curious about your origins? Examine the archives of Harrington.

My heart stopped beating. During one of the whispered talks at last night's gala, the name "Harrington" had come up once, but I had written it off as inconsequential. I wasn't so sure now.

"Is everything okay in there?" From beyond the curtain, Grace called.

"All right!" I hurriedly said, putting the phone back in my bag. As I changed into the gown, my thoughts were racing. Who was the sender? And why?

I couldn't get the text out of my head that night. I took advantage of Williams' announcement that he would not be returning home until late due to a work dinner.

As he straightened his cufflinks, he cut his voice and added, "Don't wait up."

I said, "I won't," already preparing my next move.

I opened my laptop as soon as he was gone and looked up the Harrington archives. The searches directed me to a Midtown private library that needed special access to enter. I was uncertain if I would even be permitted entry, but my curiosity was burning brightly within me.

An hour later, I was standing outside the imposing structure, which had elaborate carvings on its stone facade. The smell of polish and old paper filled the air within. As I walked up to the counter, a grim-faced librarian gave me a dubious look.

I said, maintaining a calm tone, "I'm searching for documents pertaining to the Harrington family."

She knitted her brow. "Access to such archives is restricted. Are you cleared?

After a moment of hesitation, I took Williams' business card out of my purse. I introduced myself as Mrs. Franklin in the hopes that my name would be significant enough to get me a job.

Although there was still scepticism in her eyes, her demeanour softened a little. She said, "Wait here," and vanished via a side door.

A few minutes later, she returned with a key and led me into a softly illuminated room packed with shelves holding aging documents and leather-covered books.

She warned me firmly, "Do not remove anything from this room," and then she departed, leaving me by myself.

After searching the shelves and running my fingertips down the spines, I came across a book titled *Harrington Family: 19th Century to Present*. As I opened it, my hands shook a little.

Family trees, names, and dates that I didn't understand covered the first several pages. However, when I turned the pages, I noticed a name: Margaret Harrington. The head of the household.

Her name was followed by the following notation: *Two grandchildren. One person died.

I furrowed my brow. That was nonsensical. Only one living grandchild, a man called Alex, was identified on the tree. The other was where?

My breath caught as I flipped the page. An ancient snapshot was nestled among the leaves.

It featured a baby wrapped in a blanket with the Harrington family insignia embroidered on it. Although it had faded, the handwriting on the back was still readable: *Freda, 2001*

As I gazed at the name, my heart raced. My name.

As the realisation set in, the air appeared to get colder. Is it possible? Had I always been associated in some way with this influential family?

The sound of footfall reverberated in the corridor before I could comprehend the ramifications.

The door creaked open and I froze, holding the book to my chest. A dark figure entered, their face hidden by the low light.

"Are we looking into the past?" A well-known voice drewled.

Ethan Blackwell was the one.

"Why are you in this place?" With a trembling voice, I demanded.

He leaned idly on the doorframe and grinned. "What are *you* doing here?" is the true query. You're engaging in risky behaviour, Mrs. Franklin.

I tried to seem bolder than I actually felt by saying, "I don't know what you're talking about."

With sparkling eyes, he remarked, "Oh, I think you do." The Harringtons are not amenable to strangers prying into their affairs. Nor do I.

He moved closer before I could reply, his voice becoming a whisper.

"Freda, exercise caution," he said. "What you find may not be to your liking."

He then turned and left, leaving me by myself in the quiet room with my head spinning and my heart pounding.