Chapter 6 The Name That Shouldn't Be Spoken

Ayla's POV

I did not arrange to stay late a second time. Mrs. Harrington gave me that mysterious, unwelcoming smile right before telling me about doing laundry tasks. Her thin, passive lips indicated she was inviting me to challenge her decision.

I found myself inside a laundry facility that looked like a high-end boutique rather than a typical clothes-washing space while handling luxury linens alongside designer silk goods. Repeatedly working through groups of uniforms and monogrammed hand towels while velvet throw blankets became treasures in my hands during that day.

I folded, pressed, and repeated.

But my thoughts weren't on the sheets.

They were on the name.

Sinclair.

They had whispered it like it was a ghost. Like it didn't belong here. But it did. I did.

My mother never said much about Dominic Blackwood-only that he had once been part of her life, that something powerful and painful had torn them apart. She never begged for his money, never chased his name. All she gave me was the truth-and a warning.

"Don't go looking for people who left you behind, Ayla," she used to say. "Especially not those who walk on marble floors and forget they once walked through dirt."

But I couldn't help it. I had to know.

I found myself inside his house at this moment. Hiding in plain sight.

After finishing with the towels, I heard the door make a quiet cracking noise.

I rotated to look at Claire or other staff members. A pair of piercing gray eyes met mine when I unexpectedly turned.

Damien Blackwood.

Again.

He stood in the doorway like he owned not just the estate-but the silence too. And in that moment, he might as well have.

"You work late," he said, voice low and unreadable.

I straightened. "Just following instructions, sir."

His attention shifted from the folded laundry toward me before returning to me. "What's your name again?"

I swallowed. "Ayla. Ayla Sinclair."

He paused at the last part. Just slightly. But I caught it.

He repeated "Sinclair" as though he had never heard it before, except this moment.

I managed to control my exterior through a facade of composure. "Is something wrong?"

"No." He moved into the room with deliberate slowness, similar to a wolf unsure about making a move. "I just... know that name."

My heart thudded. I forced a small smile. "It's not uncommon."

He spoke in a soft voice when he added, "It is here."

The space felt frostier, and the atmosphere became more constrained.

"You look familiar," he added.

I shook my head. "I doubt that, sir. My home has always stayed beyond the furthest reaches of this entire world before this present moment.

He studied me while keeping his expression a secret. "Where are you from?"

"Upstate," I lied. "Small town. You wouldn't know it."

"Try me."

I clenched my jaw. This was dangerous. He was digging. Not yet, I told myself. Keep your actions clean enough to prevent him from putting together his queries.

I told him, 'I should finish up' as I moved skillfully by him. I need to get up soon today.

He didn't stop me.

But he didn't leave, either.

Leaving the hallway, I heard him shout behind me.

"Ayla."

I froze.

"Have you ever heard of the Sinclair Trust?"

My blood turned to ice.

"No," I lied.

He watched me closely, nodding like he didn't believe me but wouldn't push further-yet.

"Get some rest," he said.

I hurried away without looking back.

Every muscle in my body was tense as I sat on my bed watching the ceiling. I sat on my bed watching the ceiling as Claire had already slept, but my thoughts remained active.

The Sinclair Trust.

He knew.

Maybe not everything, but enough to start asking questions.

If Damien started digging into my last name, if he got curious enough to ask his father, then everything I had worked for-getting inside this house, gaining access to Dominic Blackwood's world-it could all fall apart.

I needed a plan.

If Damien suspected, then I had to stay ahead of him.

The answer wasn't just in my name. It was in the past. In the letters my mother never sent. In the photo I kept hidden inside my bag-Dominic and my mother, standing too close, too young, before secrets buried them both.

Tomorrow, I'd start in the west wing, where the old records were stored. Maybe the estate logs, guest registries, or account ledgers could hold something. A connection. A slip.

Anything that proved my mother had once been here.

And maybe... why she was erased.

I clutched the photo tighter in my hand, the edges worn from too many nights like this.

They'd kept me out of this world my entire life.

Now I was inside.

And I wasn't leaving until I had the truth.