13

The next morning, Leila opened her eyes and blinked at the unfamiliar room, like she’d woken up in someone else's movie—one where she wasn’t the lead. The only thing she recognized was Wolfie, sprawled out on the other half of the four-poster bed, taking up more space than seemed possible for a dog. The morning light filtered through velvet curtains the color of overripe plums, casting a soft glow over the polished wood floors. The bed looked straight out of a European castle—mahogany, carved with the kind of craftsmanship that screamed, "I’ve got money, and I want you to know it." The sheets were Egyptian cotton, probably with a thread count higher than most people's salaries.

Leila pushed herself up, the plush duvet slipping off her shoulders like butter. The room was big—so big, it made most penthouses look like broom closets. Across from her, a marble fireplace stood cold and untouched, its mantel decorated with abstract sculptures that were probably worth more than her house. Above the fireplace, a flat-screen TV hung on the wall, as big as a drive-in movie screen, but blending in with the chalet’s "money talks,

Off to the side was a sitting area, complete with leather armchairs so deep a burglar could hide in them and a glass coffee table that looked like it was meant for staring at, not using. A fur rug—probably real—stretched out in front of the fireplace, and Leila deliberately didn’t think too much about what animal had sacrificed itself for the sake of it.

The walls were paneled in stained walnut, offset by cream wallpaper with gold accents that somehow managed to be both ostentatious and tasteful. The ceiling had thick wooden beams, the kind that said "rustic charm," except the room was too polished to believe it. To her left, a half-open door led to what looked like an ensuite bathroom. From here, Leila could make out the marble floors and a bathtub big enough for a small pool party.

She took a deep breath, the air faintly scented with something woodsy and expensive. Wolfie stretched out beside her, completely content, as if waking up in glamour was just another Tuesday. Leila, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure what to make of it. The night before had been a blur of dangerous fun, intrigue, and too much champagne. But Tom, in his ever-practical way, had decided that Christina’s chalet wasn’t safe, not with shadowy figures lurking around, so they’d ended up here. Wherever "here" was. Some kind of fortress provided by Tom's new employers at the Grossman Center. It was hard to imagine Tom, the techie, waking up in a place like this, but then again, his new gig came with perks. 

Leila swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, her feet sinking into a Persian rug that probably had its own zip code. She glanced around for Tom, but there was no sign of him. On the nightstand, a note in his sharp, precise handwriting caught her eye.

“Check out the local library. Ask for Yellen’s book. Tom”

Leila sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Eduard Yellen. The man whose nutty research had kicked off this whole mess. A dead man with too many secrets and not enough time to spill them. Now she was supposed to dig through dusty old books to figure out how deep this rabbit hole went. She headed for the fridge, hoping for something stronger than a clue, but all she found was a single can of gourmet dog food and a designer bottle of mineral water. Wolfie’s breakfast, it seemed, was more luxurious than hers.

She emptied the can into Wolfie’s bowl, watching the husky amble over with the kind of regal disinterest that only dogs in five-star accommodations could pull off. As the hound was busy eating, Leila slipped on her boots and grabbed her coat. There was no way around it—she had a date with dusty library shelves.

The library wasn’t hard to find, thanks to the tourist map pinned up at the chalet’s entrance. Quaint and unassuming, it was wedged between a café and a souvenir shop selling overpriced snow globes. Hardly the setting for a conspiracy that could bring down European democracy, but Leila knew better than to trust appearances. She stepped inside, the scent of old books and mildew wrapping around her like bad memories.

The place was as quiet as a wault, with rows of bookshelves stretching into the distance. A few scattered tables sat under flickering fluorescent lights, and the dust in the air felt thick enough to choke on. Leila found the history section and grabbed the book Tom had mentioned. Eduard Yellen’s "masterpiece" on German aristocracy and their ties to ancient power. It was thick, the kind of book that could double as a doorstop or a weapon, depending on circumstances. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the boring content, but she wasn’t really reading. Her mind was elsewhere, piecing together the events of the last few days. The cult, the AI virus, the artifact they were after—it all tied back to Yellen’s research, and Christina's property.

Just as she was getting enough of the book, the sound of a door creaking open snapped her attention to the back of the room. A woman stepped out from a private room, dressed in a tailored black suit that screamed "money." She moved with a kind of precision that made Leila's skin crawl, her heels clicking softly against the floor. The woman exchanged a few hushed words with the librarian before slipping out the front door.

Leila’s heart skipped a beat. The nametag on the woman’s lapel hadn’t gone unnoticed—Marianne Grossman. The wife of Mikhail Grossman, the man at the center of all this chaos. Leila watched the door swing shut behind her and felt the weight of it all settle over her.

The Grossmans were tied to the Third Eye Society, a group of aristocrats with a plan to reshape Europe in their twisted image. But this wasn’t just about power. Leila felt It was something older, deeper, and she had a good nose for things like that. They weren’t just pulling strings—they were rewriting the playbook.

Leila stood, walking up to the librarian's desk with a calm she didn’t feel. She slid a request form across the counter. "I’d like to see the second volume of this book," she said, her voice steady.

The librarian looked at the form, then at Leila. Her face darkened, her lips curling into a frown that could sour milk. "We don’t have that book anymore. It was stolen."

Leila raised an eyebrow. “Stolen? From a library?”

The librarian nodded, her expression as flat as week-old coffee. “People are like that. No respect for books anymore.”

Leila gave a tight-lipped frown, but her mind was racing. Stolen? Someone had come here and taken Yellen’s work. Not just borrowed—stolen. She had to find out why, but not here. Not now.

She pushed open the library door and nearly ran into someone on her way out. A foot stomped on hers, hard.

“Watch it!” Leila snapped, pulling back, only to freeze when she saw who it was.

“Linda?” Leila’s eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Linda Stern, a reporter with a nose for trouble and the kind of grin that said she always knew more than you, smirked at Leila. “Fancy seeing you here, kid. What’s a girl like you doing in a dusty old place like this?”

Leila rolled her eyes. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Linda didn’t miss a beat. “How about we grab some coffee, and you can tell me what you’re really doing here.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting in a nearby café, sipping black coffee and trading stories. Linda, as always, had her ear to the ground. Apparently, the library break-in had made waves, but the police weren’t involved. And there was a name tied to it all—Marianne Grossman.

Leila leaned back in her chair, her mind whirling. Grossman, the cult, the stolen book. It all had to be  connected, but to what? And more importantly, why somebody tried to murder her beautiful, harmless aunt?