Igor stood at the door of Maisie’s room, his expression unreadable. The tension between them had lingered for days, ever since the political rally. Maisie had been distant, aloof, and avoiding any direct conversation. Igor had been on standby in the kitchen, waiting to bring breakfast, but she hadn’t come down. That was when he noticed something was off—something had happened. Maisie’s silence spoke volumes.

  He stepped inside, glancing at her, sitting on her bed with her hands tightly clutching the edge of the blanket. Her eyes were bloodshot, as though she'd been crying, and there was a certain weight to her presence—something had shifted.

  "Good morning, Mistress," Igor said, his voice steady but careful. He had his duties, but something more was at play here. "How are you feeling?"

  Maisie glanced up, her gaze meeting his for a brief moment before dropping again. “I’ve been better.”

  Igor nodded. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he took a step closer. "Is it about the other day?" he asked, his tone deliberately neutral, though the question hung heavy in the air.

  Maisie’s lips tightened. She glanced at the door, as though looking for some escape, but then she exhaled shakily and met his gaze again. “You could say that.”

  He didn’t push her. Instead, he waited, giving her the space to say what she needed to say.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Maisie spoke, her voice almost a whisper. “Remember how my mother told me something about Leo?” Her fingers twisted nervously in the blanket, and for a moment, she looked almost fragile, her usual composure cracking.

  Maisie hesitated, her fingers clutching the fabric of her blanket. “Mother slept with an Alucard. Back when she and my father were just starting their relationship. She was still in college, and… she had a thing for one of the servants. He started working at the mansion at the same time she and my father got serious.” Her voice lowered, almost as if speaking the words aloud made them more shameful. “He must have been charming… beautiful, even. My mother only entertains the most handsome men.”

  Igor nearly scoffed at that. Handsome men? She thinks her father is handsome? To each their own. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the revelation at hand.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  Maisie took a breath to continue, but suddenly, she hyperventilated a little, her face tightening. She struggled to inhale, sucking in desperate gulps of oxygen.

  Igor took a cautious step forward. “Are you alright?”

  Maisie nodded weakly after catching her breath. Her voice was uneven. “Better now.”

  “Then keep going,” he pressed. “What else did she say?”

  Maisie hesitated again, as if what came next was too heavy. Then, in a near whisper, she admitted, “She became pregnant. With his child.”

  Igor’s expression remained calm, though he didn’t speak. He had heard bits and pieces of things over the years, enough to suspect there was more to Leo’s past. But Maisie was hearing it now, for the first time, and he could see the shock settling in.

  “Go on,” he urged, his voice low.

  “Leo…” Maisie exhaled the name like it was a curse. “Leo isn’t my father’s son. He’s the product of two different species.” She let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “No wonder my family is so broken. My father doesn’t love Leo the way he loves me and my younger brother. To him, Leo is… unnatural. A monster... That’s why he’s so distant from us. That’s why he keeps to himself.”

  She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and sadness.

  Igor nodded slowly.

  Maisie’s voice cracked as she continued. “I never realized it, not fully. I thought it was just... just normal family tension. But now I know. Leo isn’t like us. And I can’t even imagine what it must feel like for him, growing up in that house, knowing he’s not wanted.”

  “Leo is still your brother, no matter what blood runs through his veins,” Igor said gently, watching Maisie’s face for the tiniest flicker of emotion. “The past is a graveyard of mistakes. Why let it keep haunting you? Why are you really this upset?”

  Maisie looked away, her eyes glassy. “I thought I’d made peace with it.. But… after I found out, I lost control. I called my mother a slut. I accused her of being immoral—just threw it at her. The words came out before I could stop them.” Her voice cracked. “She left my room in tears. I felt disgusting the moment the words hit the air.”

  So that was it. The fire behind her coldness. The hurt behind her silence.

  Igor nodded sympathetically.

  Igor took another step closer, his voice calm but firm. “You’re angry,” he stated simply. It wasn’t a question; it was an observation. He could see the pain behind her words, the confusion she was trying to sort through.

  Maisie nodded slowly, her chest rising and falling in a deep, shaky breath. “Yes,” she said softly. “I am. I’m angry at her. I’m angry at my father. And I’m angry at Leo for not telling me the truth.”

  “That’s not the only reason I’ve been crying,” she murmured.

  Igor calmly spoke to Maisie, “Yes?”

  “This morning before you showed up, my mother… she hit me,” Maisie admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers trembled as she traced patterns on the bedsheet. “She said she knew about the White Angels and should’ve put a stop to it sooner. Then she told me I couldn’t go anymore—that as long as I’m under her roof, I’ll do as she says.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s so unfair. I’m twenty years old, not a child. She can’t control me forever.”

  Igor’s gaze remained steady. “Did you ask her why?”

  Maisie swallowed hard. “No. She just… ran off after that. Crying.”

  Maisie exhaled shakily. “I think—I think it’s because of how I judged her last night. I called her immoral. A liar. I was so cruel.” Her voice wavered with guilt. “Maybe she hit me because I made her feel like a monster.”

  Igor considered this, then spoke with a measured calm. “Or maybe she’s just afraid.”

  Maisie looked up, startled. “Afraid?”

  “Yes.” Igor sat down across from her. “She’s spent decades burying the truth, pretending nothing was wrong. But now it’s out in the open. She can’t control how people see her anymore. Not her husband. Not Leo. Not you. And if she’s losing control over that… she’s probably desperate to hold onto something else. Even if that something is you.”

  Maisie’s anger faltered. “You think that?”

  “I do.” Igor met her eyes. “That doesn’t make what she did right. But maybe she doesn’t hate you. Maybe she’s just terrified of losing you, too.”

  Maisie was silent for a long time. Then she nodded, just slightly. “I need to talk to her.”

  Igor gave a small nod. “Yes.”

  Maisie’s lips pressed together, determination replacing resentment. “I’ll find her. Apologize for how I acted. But I won’t apologize for wanting to make my own choices.”

  "That seems fair," Igor said softly, rising to his feet.

  Maisie let out a slow breath, the tension in her chest easing for the first time in days. "Thank you, Igor," she whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. "You always know how to help me see things."

  Igor’s eyes softened as he met her gaze, his usual composure giving way to something more intimate. He inclined his head gently, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It’s what I’m here for, Mistress... always."

  As he turned to leave, Maisie straightened slightly, her heart feeling lighter, as though the room had shifted in the most subtle yet profound way.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  _______

  The Night Before

  “Leo, don’t,” Mrs. Lennox pleaded, her voice tight.

  Leo stood rigid, his fist trembling in the air, rage seething beneath his skin.

  Across from him, Harry’s hand still hovered slightly, as though in disbelief at what it had just done. His palm stung—he had struck first. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t him. But it had happened. And Leo hadn’t hit back.

  Tension thickened, suffocating.

  Harry swallowed. He hated moments like this—when the masks dropped, and the ugliness poured out. He hated even more that he had started it. That, once again, he’d failed to keep control.

  But Leo knew how to needle him. Always had. All that brilliance—twisted into defiance. Too sharp, too proud, too much like him. Or worse, like him.

  Harry’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re thirty, Leo. Thirty. A PhD collecting dust under our roof. When are you going to get a job? Make something of yourself?”

  He regretted the words even as they left him, but it was like watching his mouth from behind glass—disconnected, helpless. The flicker of pain in Leo’s face landed like a blow, and somehow it only fanned the fire in his chest.

  Leo’s laugh was hollow, sharp. “You think I haven’t tried?”

  Harry’s jaw clenched. “Then try harder.”

  “Try harder?” Leo stepped forward. His eyes were burning. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to apply for jobs with my name? To walk into interviews and see their faces fall the second they recognize me? Half of them know what I am, the other half just… feel it. You want to know why I’m still here? Because no one will hire me. Because the world you want me to thrive in won’t let me.”

  Harry didn’t answer. Because deep down, he believed it. He hated that he did.

  Mrs. Lennox’s lips trembled. “Leo…”

  “I stay because of you,” Leo snapped, voice breaking. “Because I’m all you have. Because if I leave, he’ll grind you into dust. I see it. I see everything.”

  Harry’s fists curled at his sides. He wanted to say that wasn’t true. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Some part of him—some dark, quiet part—knew Leo wasn’t wrong.

  “So you’re a martyr now?”

  Leo’s voice dropped into something low, venomous. “No. I’m your reminder. Of what she did. Of what I am. That’s why you hate me. Just admit it.”

  Harry’s spine stiffened. The words were poison—but they hit their mark. He hated that he couldn’t fully separate Leo from the man who had ruined his marriage. And he hated himself even more for feeling that way. Because Leo was brilliant. Capable. Loyal in a way no one else in this house ever had been. And still, Harry looked at him and saw the bloodline that wasn’t his.

  “Stop,” Harry growled.

  “Say it.”

  “I said stop—”

  Leo’s voice rose, raw and cracked. “I wish I’d never been born to you!” His eyes flicked between them, burning. “You both treat me like garbage. It isn’t right!”

  Mrs. Lennox recoiled, her face stricken. But Leo didn’t stop.

  “You let him tear into me,” he spat, pointing at her. “You watch. You play peacekeeper like it’s noble, like you’re not choosing a side just by staying silent. You tell me to ‘be patient,’ to ‘not provoke him,’ like I’m the problem. You’ve been trying to fix me since I was a kid. You wanted me to be smaller, quieter, easier to stomach. Like maybe then he’d stop seeing my father every time he looked at me.”

  And then Harry snapped. Not out of reason. Not out of righteousness. Just a blind, ancient fury that burst through a dam he hadn’t known was cracking.

  His hand flew out, and the crack of skin meeting skin was louder than any of their words.

  A second later, the room fell deathly still.

  Harry froze. His arm dropped like a dead weight. He looked at Leo, wide-eyed, shocked, ashamed, horrified by what he had done.

  Mrs. Lennox flinched as though she had been struck. Tears welled in her eyes, and she backed away, shaking.

  “Mara, don’t cry,” Harry whispered, voice hoarse with guilt, reaching for her.

  Leo scoffed, stepping back. His heart thundered in his chest. “Whatever.”

  He turned sharply and stormed away, his footsteps echoing like gunshots down the hallway.

  “Don’t do anything rash, Mara.”

  But he already knew she would. She always did.

  Mara Lennox had always been defiant, her spirit bending away from pressure like flame from wind. She’d buried it deep for years. But now, it rose.

  She wasn’t crying anymore. She was thinking.

  And Harry saw it too late—the way her mouth pressed into that old, cold line. The way her eyes drifted not toward him but toward the hall Leo had vanished down.

  Without a word, she turned and left the room.

  Not toward her bedroom. Not to compose herself or weep behind a locked door.

  She was going after Leo.

  And Harry knew what that meant.

  Maybe she would tell Leo the truth—everything. Maybe she’d finally choose him outright, consequences be damned. Maybe she’d walk out the door with him, let the whole world know whose side she was on.

  Or maybe—worse—she’d reach for the pills in the drawer again.

  Harry stood there, alone, staring at the empty doorway, the silence pressing in around him like walls closing in.

  He had promised to love Leo as his own. And in some ways, he truly did. But Leo—brilliant, strange, broken—was a living scar he could never stop tracing with his eyes.

  Still, the boy wasn’t to blame.

  So why did it feel like everything was falling apart?

  ---

  Mara returned to her bedroom, her body hollowed out by disappointment. She collapsed onto the bed, tears soaking into her pillow. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, dragging her into a deep, aching sleep—the kind that only came after a soul-breaking cry.

  Sometime past midnight, a noise roused her. The low, mechanical hum of a van pulling into the estate's long driveway. Her instincts stirred uneasily.

  She peered out the window.

  Igor stumbled out of the back of the van.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  His face was streaked with a dark reddish-brown substance. Blood? Mud? Both? His expression was vacant, eyes wide and unfocused—like the glassy stare of a dead fish, only tinted with an eerie, unnatural red.

  Mara threw on her robe and hurried down the stairs, her heart thudding.

  “Igor!” she called, her voice urgent. “Where have you been? What happened to you?”

  He turned to her slowly, his posture unnatural, robotic.

  “To protect the innocent, we shall fight down the evil,” he intoned in a low, dreamlike voice. “The evil is at the top… and we shall triumph over it like an angel out of the sky, fighting with lightning.”

  Mara froze.

  She knew those words.

  The White Angels’ motto.

  She had read it in a few underground news blogs that covered the vigilante group's strange behavior. People who spouted that line often awoke with no memory of what they had done. And she knew—Maisie was involved. She had found a letter weeks ago, branded with the unmistakable White Angel insignia and addressed to her daughter.

  Her suspicion had blossomed into certainty.

  And now, Igor—loyal, graceful, composed Igor—was another piece of the puzzle. But something was wrong. He called her "Mistress" in the way he did with Maisie.

  “Igor,” she said quietly, trying to steady her voice, “go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Yes… Mistress…” he mumbled, swaying slightly.

  She flinched at the title. He wasn’t hers. Not like that. But she let it slide.

  “Goodnight,” she said, not sure whether she was speaking to the real Igor or something else wearing his skin.

  She didn’t dare ask about the blood.

  She didn’t want to know.

  If she found out, she feared she’d never be able to unsee it.

  In the morning:

  Pale dawn light spilled across Maisie’s bed as Mara stood outside her daughter’s door. Leo’s and Harry’s rooms down the hall remained closed, but here, too, much stood unsaid.

  Mara knocked once. “Maisie… may I come in?”

  Maisie, wrapped in a robe, sat at her desk, eyes fierce but weary. She nodded, and Mara stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her.

  Mara perched on the edge of the bed. She took a slow breath. “I need to tell you the rest of the truth about Leo.”

  Maisie’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

  Mara’s hands trembled. “Before you were born, I had an affair with one of our Alucard servants. Leo’s real father is not your father.”

  Maisie’s face went blank for a heartbeat—then hardened. “You’re a hypocrite and a slut, Mother. You lied to Dad—and me.”

  Mara’s heart ached. “I was scared,” she whispered. “Ashamed. But I see now how dangerous secrets can be.” In desperation, she slapped Maisie’s cheek. The crack echoed in the hush.

  Maisie staggered, hand to her cheek, tears bright in her eyes. Mara’s own eyes filled. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice trembling. “But I know something else—” She seized Maisie’s gaze with fierce urgency. “That group you found—the White Angels—they’re not safe. They drug people, erase their memories. I’ve seen it. You have to leave them. You’re not protected there—you’ll be used.”

  Maisie pressed her lips together, tears falling. “I need time,” she whispered.

  Mara nodded, swallowing her sorrow and her guilt for the slap. She knew Maisie wasn’t safe, and she would fight to keep her out of that darkness. “Take whatever time you need. But promise me you’ll stay away from them.”

  Maisie looked away, silence stretching between them. Mara rose and, one last time, offered, “I love you.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mara slipped from the room and closed the door softly. In the quiet hallway, she drew a shaky breath, resolute in the knowledge that her daughter’s safety now depended on her broken honesty.