The Secrets We Keep: Chapter 3; Upon Arrival
Warnings: Mentions of Death. It may get a bit angsty at times so be prepared lol. (I have no idea what to warn you of...:'I)
Chapter 3! *insert cute grey cat jumping in circle meme*
Thanks for reading again!!! Writing is genuinely so much fun and I have faith that someone will like this book more than me, u know? Anywayss! Enjoy this chapter!
The train car hummed steadily beneath Maya as she stared out the window, her thoughts flickering between exhaustion and disbelief. The blurred countryside passed like smeared watercolorsârolling hills, thick forests, the occasional farmhouse tucked into wintry brush. She hadnât spoken to anyone since boardingâheadphones in without music, hood up without rain.
She wasnât sure what she expected Kirkibirch Heights to look like. Certainly not a real place. It sounded like something plucked from a fantasy novelâtoo regal, too ridiculous. But the farther the train climbed, the clearer it became: she was heading somewhere money didnât just liveâit reigned.
The conductorâs voice crackled through the intercom.
âNext stop: Kirkibirch Heights Station. Please gather your belongings.â
Maya stood, legs stiff from the overnight ride. She grabbed her duffel bagâthe same one she used when she and her father went campingâand slung it over her shoulder. Everything else she owned was back at the apartment with Austin. This trip, she reminded herself, wasnât meant to be permanent.
As the train slowed to a crawl, the station emerged like a movie set. Stone archways framed by black iron gates. Polished brass signage in elegant serif lettering. The platform was pristine, flanked by marble benches and hedges trimmed like topiary sculptures. It didnât look like a station so much as a private terminal.
Maya stepped off, half-expecting someone to check her credentials just for standing there.
A man in a perfectly pressed black coat and matching gloves stood beside a vintage Rolls-Royce Ghost, its obsidian body gleaming even in the soft morning fog. A placard in his gloved hand read:
She blinked. The air was sharper hereâcleaner somehow. Colder. She approached cautiously.
âYouâre⊠here for me?â she asked.
The man gave a single, respectful nod. âMs. Statton requested I meet you personally, Miss Castillo. Iâll be your driver for the duration of your stay.â
The man blinked once. âVictor Gerard.â
Maya gave a small curtsy, unable to resist. âWell, the fanciest and most grateful of pleasures to meet you, Mr. Gerard.â
He allowed himself a faint smile, took her duffel without asking, and opened the car door as if it were second nature. For him, it probably was.
Maya hesitated before stepping inside. The interior smelled of polished leather and something faintly floralâgardenia and expensive wood. The seat hugged her frame in a way her motherâs arms never had.
She leaned her head against the glass as they pulled away from the station. The town lay far below the cliffsâhumble, cobblestoned, families bundled in coats. But the road they took twisted upward, through wrought-iron gates flanked by towering marble lions.
Kirkibirch Heights wasnât just a place.
And her mother had belonged to it.
Now Maya was being summoned backâlike a long-lost heir with no crown, no map, and no idea who she was walking into battle with.
The drive to the estate was longer than she expectedâsilent, winding, surreal. The road curved through dense groves of pine and frost-laced birch trees. With every mile, the world grew more isolated. No stores. No homes. No signs of ordinary life. Just a guarded path climbing toward something hidden.
She glanced at Victor. His expression never changed. Eyes forward. Posture perfect. He might as well have been carved from marble like everything else here.
Maya sank deeper into the leather seat, the silence amplifying every racing thought.
The last time she had seen her mother in person, she had watched her disappear into a limousine just like this. Now she was riding in one, feeling like an imposter in a film where she wasnât the starâjust a misplaced extra.
Then they turned one final bend.
At the top of the hill, nestled like a crown between cliffs, stood the Brewer Estate.
It wasnât just a mansion.
The main house stretched across the horizon, built of pale limestone that shimmered in the early light. Ivy draped over upper terraces, trimmed like lace. Massive arched windows lined the façade, edged in gold trim. Balconies curved outward like flower petals, each adorned with intricate wrought-iron railings and immaculate topiary.
Three fountains adorned the circular courtyard where the car slowed. One was shaped like a phoenix in flight. Another like two swans entwined. The thirdâalmost absurdlyâdepicted a globe cradled by winged statues.
The scale of itâthe detail, the cold perfectionâwas dizzying.
Back home, her apartment creaked when the weather turned cold. Here, even the air felt curated. Filtered through power, wealth, and legacy.
âThis⊠this is where she lived?â Maya whispered.
Victor met her gaze in the rearview mirror.
âFor the last eleven years, Miss Castillo,â he said. âYes.â
The car stopped beneath towering double doors carved with the Brewer family crest. A butler in a crisp charcoal uniform opened her door before she could reach for the handle.
âWelcome to Kirkibirch Heights,â he said with a bow. âWeâve been expecting you.â
Maya stepped out slowly, boots crunching against the gravel.
This place wasnât just wealthy.
It was engineered to remind you who held power.
It whispered, You donât belong here.
And as the doors openedâwide, warm, impossibly tallâMaya had never felt smaller.
The butler led her inside, his footsteps silent against polished stone. The air was cool, scented faintly with bergamot and lavender. Marble floors veined in cream and ink stretched beneath glittering chandeliers that scattered fractured rainbows across the walls.
The sharp click of heels cut through her awe.
âMaya Thalinia Castillo,â came a voice like silk wrapped around steel.
Marina Statton approached from the east corridor, clipboard in hand, posture rigid. Her dark hair was pinned so tightly not a strand dared move, and her charcoal-gray suit looked tailored to perfection.
Maya instinctively straightened.
âMiss Castillo,â Marina replied coolly, assessing her with a glance that was both polite and surgical. âYouâre precisely on time. I appreciate punctuality.â
Marina turned without invitation. âFollow me. Youâll be staying in the East Wing.â
The estate unfolded like a labyrinthâcorridors lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors frozen in oil paint. Lace collars. Medals. Faces that looked like they had never known rejection.
âIâve arranged light refreshments in your suite,â Marina said. âYour formal attire will be delivered tomorrow morning. I recommend rest. Youâll need it.â
âWhy?â Maya asked, nearly tripping over a thick Persian runner.
Marina paused at the top of a staircase.
âBecause, Miss Castillo, when money dies, everyone claws to inherit its ghost. Best you prepare yourself now.â
They stopped before a double-door suite etched with a rose motif in frosted glass. Marina opened it and stepped aside.
The room was larger than Mayaâs entire apartment.
A king-sized bed sat beneath a vaulted ceiling. Cream curtains framed arched windows overlooking the cliffs. A sitting area rested near a softly crackling fireplace, velvet chairs positioned beside a tray of fruit, cheeses, and steaming tea.
âSomeone will confirm your measurements within the hour,â Marina said. âThe estate schedule is in the folder on your desk. If you require anything, contact staff.â
She paused at the doorway.
âOhâand Miss Castillo?â
âThis is not a homecoming. Donât mistake it for one.â
The door closed with a quiet final click.
Maya stood alone in the center of the room.
Surrounded by everything.
Nightfall approached. Maya sat near the fire, untouched tea cooling beside her. The leather-bound folder Marina had given her felt heavier than it should. Embossed in gold with the Brewer crest, it resembled a ledger more than a welcome packet.
Inside: a schedule as rigid as the estate itself. Every hour accounted forâbrunches, formal dinners, âreflection sessions,â and the will reading.
Tucked within were photographs.
Her motherâElinaâsmiling in silk gowns at gala events. Holding champagne flutes. Standing beside strangers Maya had never met, her hand resting delicately on a manâs shoulder she didnât recognize.
She hadnât seen her mother in over a decade.
Now she was finding her in curated smiles.
The door opened without warning.
âOf course,â came a sharp, glass-edged voice. âThey gave you this room. Probably out of pity.â
Angelina Brewer stood in the doorway, immaculate as ever. Her brown hair streaked with gray was twisted into a flawless knot. A silk robe shimmered in the firelight. She leaned against the frame, studying Maya like a stain on white fabric.
âHello to you too,â Maya muttered.
Angelina stepped inside uninvited.
âI figured Iâd see the prodigal daughter for myself. After all, you missed the funeral. And most of her life.â
Maya closed the folder carefully. âI wasnât told there was a funeral. And if I recall correctly, I wasnât even told about you until I was nearly eleven.â
âOh, right,â Angelina said sweetly. âMustâve gotten lost in all that silence you left behind.â
Mayaâs jaw tightened. âYou had my number. My email. I spoke to Mom last yearâdonât pretend you couldnât have reached me.â
Angelina smiled like a shark.
âMaya, sweetheart. Letâs not pretend anyone wanted you here.â
Maya stood, the fire casting her shadow long behind her. âWhy? Because you didnât want to share the spotlight? Or the money?â
âBecause,â Angelina whispered, stepping closer, âyouâre nothing. We had a good life before you. We continued it after you were gone. And now youâre here sniffing around for something that doesnât belong to you.â
âI didnât ask for this!â Maya shouted. âShe was the one who lied. She was the one who left meânot you!â
For half a second, something flickered in Angelinaâs eyes.
âShe made her choice,â Angelina said coolly. âAnd we made ours.â
She brushed invisible lint from her sleeve.
âYouâre here now. Elinaâs little charity case, arriving at the last second, hoping for a slice.â
Maya stepped closer. âIf Iâm nothing, why come in here at all?â
Angelinaâs lips curved into a humorless smile.
âBecause I wanted to see your face when you realize youâre not even worth the grease on a pepperoni.â
She turned toward the door.
âAnd noâyou werenât invited. She was âbondingâ with you. And you still werenât invited.â
The door closed softly behind her.
Maya stood in the silence, heart pounding.
The reading was in three days.
Whatever was wrong with this place had started long before she arrived.
She only had to stay long enough to uncover the truth.
But one question lingered heavier than the rest:
Did her mother ever truly care?
