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CHAPTER 1
R ain lashed against the ancient windows of The Red Lion, turning the streetlights outside into hazy golden orbs. Tessa Lawson hurried across the worn floorboards to add another log to the fire, welcoming the surge of warmth as sparks spiraled up the chimney. October had arrived with a vengeance, bringing darkness by half past seven and a bitter chill that penetrated the pub’s centuries-old walls.
The Red Lion had been her sanctuary and livelihood for three years now, ever since she’d needed a fresh start after her engagement collapsed. The pub’s history had drawn her to this place—its weathered beams and comforting atmosphere were as much a part of her now as her own pulse.
“This weather is bloody awful,” Harry Crighton grumbled, his Scottish brogue rolling through the pub as he shook raindrops from his dark hair. Despite his complaints, Tessa knew he’d trudged across London in the downpour specifically to help with her heritage application. His wife Daphne claimed he’d do anything to escape an evening of bathing their twin terrors, but Tessa knew better. Harry was loyal to his bones, and a good friend.
“Quit whining and make yourself useful,” she said, tossing him a torch. “Oliver should be here any minute, and I want to document the cellar properly before he distracts us with whatever ridiculously expensive whisky he’s bringing.”
Harry laughed, catching the torch with reflexes that still surprised her. For a man who claimed to be an ordinary security consultant, he moved with the precision of someone who’d spent lifetimes honing his instincts.
“The man does have excellent taste,” Harry conceded, his accent thickening as he switched on the torch with a flick of his wrist. “Though why he’s so invested in this dusty old pub is beyond me.”
Tessa shot him a look. “Says the man who just walked thirty minutes in the rain to help document said dusty old pub.”
“Fair point.”
The door swung open on a gust of wind, and Oliver Graham, tech billionaire and walking contradiction, stepped inside. Water dripped from his expensive overcoat, but his grin remained undampened.
“Tell me you’ve brought the Macallan,” Harry said by way of greeting.
Oliver hefted a bottle from inside his coat. “Only the best for Tessa’s heritage crusade.” He turned to her, his expression softening. “How’s it coming along?”
Tessa sighed, gesturing to the stack of paperwork on the bar. “Slowly. But having photographic evidence of original features should strengthen the application.” She didn’t add what they all knew—that without the heritage listing, The Red Lion would almost certainly fall to Westfield Development’s aggressive purchase offer.
This place had become more than a pub for all of them. Over the past few years, Harry, Daphne, Oliver, and Alice had adopted The Red Lion as their regular haunt—celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, and the everyday mess of life within its familiar walls. They were regulars, yes, but also friends, the kind who didn’t need to ask before raiding the snack shelf or pouring the first round.
Oliver’s smile faltered just slightly. He cast her a sideways glance—anxious, hopeful, the same one he’d given before when he’d offered to fund the entire thing himself. Tessa met it with a firm look of her own, the kind that said don’t even think about it. She knew that glance—the quiet offer beneath the silence. He’d brought it up before, and she’d shut it down just as quickly. Accepting money from Oliver would tip the balance. Not because she didn’t trust him—she did—but because friendship and finances made uneasy bedfellows. The Red Lion was her sanctuary, not a debt to carry. She’d take help, sure—late-night painting sprees, research assistance, even Daphne’s aggressive tea deliveries. But not money. Money had a way of making things shift, even between the best of people.
“Then let’s get cracking,” Oliver said, setting the bottle aside. “Where do you need us?”
“Cellar,” she replied, already heading for the narrow doorway behind the bar. “I need to document the original stone foundations and any other pre-Victorian features.”
The wooden stairs creaked beneath their weight as they descended into the cellar’s cool darkness. Despite the fresh bulb she’d installed last week, shadows clung to the corners—thick and oddly vigilant. Tessa tugged her cardigan tighter, dismissing the familiar prickle at the back of her neck.
“The oldest section is back here,” she said, leading them past racks of wine and kegs of ale. “According to the records I found, parts of this foundation date back to the 1670s.”
Harry’s torch beam swept across the ancient stones, illuminating patches of darkened mortar. “Survived the Great Fire, then.”
“And everything since,” Tessa murmured, running her fingertips along the rough surface. She’d always sensed a connection to this building, as though the walls themselves had absorbed generations of stories, keeping them safe. The Red Lion had stood through centuries of London’s history—plague, fire, wars—witnessing it all in silent dignity.
“Tessa, look at this.” Oliver’s voice pulled her from her reverie. He was crouched beside a section of wall partly hidden behind an old shelf unit, his phone held aloft, the flashlight beam cutting a clean path through the dust. “This stonework doesn’t match the rest.”
She knelt beside him, curiosity quickening her pulse. The stones here were indeed different—smaller, less weathered, as though added later. “It could be a repair,” she said, excitement threading through her voice. “Help me move this shelf.”
The ancient wood groaned in protest as the three of them wrestled it sideways, revealing more of the mismatched stonework. Tessa ran her hands over the surface, searching for—there. A seam. A thin line where mortar gave way to emptiness.
“It’s a door,” she breathed, eyes wide. Her voice emerged hushed, almost reverent.
“Or a wall repair,” Harry cautioned, his Scottish burr softening the words even as his expression remained pragmatic.
She paused. After three years of studying every inch of The Red Lion, she’d come to recognize the rhythm of its construction—the places patched hastily, the ones settled with age. But this section was...wrong. Too uniform. Too clean. Her fingers traced the outline, and a low hum of suspicion tightened in her chest.
“No, look at the pattern.” She traced the oddly regular shape with a tentative finger. “This was deliberately sealed.”
She leaned in, inhaling sharply as her hands moved over the stone. Then—click. A hidden latch gave beneath her fingers, the soft metallic sound cutting through the silence like a secret being whispered.
She flinched. “Did you hear that?”
Oliver and Harry moved in beside her as the stone shifted inward, just slightly.
Tessa gaped at it, stunned. “It’s real,” she whispered. “There’s actually something behind it.”
Oliver exchanged glances with Harry. “Only one way to find out.”
Tessa stepped closer, heart pounding. With unsteady hands, she pressed against the edge. The narrow door creaked inward with eerie ease, revealing only a shadowed space beyond.
“Hand me the torch,” she said, her voice wavering.
Harry passed it over. “Careful now.”
She aimed the beam through the opening. Dust motes floated in the light, swirling like tiny stars in the black void beyond. As her eyes adjusted, shapes emerged—shelves lined with ancient bottles, their labels long rotted away. A forgotten broom leaned in one corner, its bristles stiff with age. And there, against the far wall, something pale and misshapen.
Tessa inhaled sharply. “There’s something in there,” she whispered. “I need to get a better look.”
The opening was narrow but passable. Tessa slipped through first, ignoring the dust and cobwebs that clung to her jeans. The hidden room was small, barely more than a forgotten storage space. Wine bottles, untouched for decades, stood in neat rows on the crumbling wooden shelves. The air hung musty and thick—but the structure, though neglected, had held.
It was what lay in the corner that drew her forward.
The torchlight fell on bones. Human bones, curled in a position of protection or prayer. A broken beam lay across the lower half of the skeleton, half-buried in debris from the ceiling above.
Beside them lay an old pocket watch, its case tarnished but intact, and clutched in what remained of the hands, a folded piece of paper—a letter, the writing faded but still visible.
“My word,” Oliver whispered from behind her.
A wave of cold swept through the room, prickling Tessa’s skin despite the stuffy air. She froze. She’d felt this before—not here, not in this pub—but in other moments, other places. That sudden, impossible drop in temperature. The feeling of being watched when no one was there. Of being noticed. A gift, her great-aunt had called it—a blood-deep sensitivity to the veil between worlds. And now, that same chill wrapped itself around her, as if something on the other side had just turned to look.
Beside her, Harry crossed himself with a shaky hand.
“We need to go back up,” she said quietly, unable to tear her gaze from the remains. “Call the police.”
Harry nodded at once, visibly rattled. “Aye. Right. Oliver, help her out. I’ll make the call.” His voice wasn’t its usual gruff confidence—it was clipped, urgent. He backed away from the bones like the air itself had teeth.
Tessa glanced at him, noting the pallor in his face, the tension in his shoulders. Harry Crighton—who claimed he’d once haunted Culloden Moor, who swore he and Alice had both been ghosts given a second chance—never flinched at talk of spirits. He’d told her all about it over pints and pool tables, full of bravado and superstition and the kind of stories most people chalked up to drink and imagination.
But this? This had shaken him.
And that, more than anything, made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
After he left, her torch beam caught something moving in the dark—a shimmer, like heat rising from pavement. Tessa halted, her breath suspended.
“Did you see that?” she whispered.
Oliver frowned. “See what?”
Before she could answer, a crash echoed from upstairs, followed by Harry’s startled curse. They hurried through the doorway, dust billowing in their wake. The temperature dropped with each step, Tessa’s breath clouding in the sudden chill as they climbed back to the pub.
Harry stood near the bar, eyes fixed on something on the floor. And beside him—of course, because the universe had a wicked sense of timing—was Sebastian Westfield.
Tall. Impeccably dressed despite the storm. Rain-dampened dark hair that somehow managed to look artfully tousled rather than bedraggled. Storm-gray eyes that tracked everything with the calm calculation of a man who’d never met a situation he couldn’t control.
Tessa’s stomach did that unhelpful little flip it always did when Sebastian showed up looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread titled “Devastatingly Handsome Men Who Ruin Your Day.” Even soaking wet, the man somehow managed to look like he belonged on a yacht rather than in her centuries-old pub. It was deeply offensive to her sense of justice. And her blood pressure.
She tore her gaze away—blast him—and looked down at the antique mirror, shattered at their feet, its ornate frame cracked straight down the middle. A few regulars had gathered, murmuring near the hearth, eyes wide.
“You’ve got a bit of a situation,” Harry said, gesturing to the glittering shards. “It just—” He made an explosive gesture. “Boom. Right off the wall.” Then, glancing at Sebastian with barely concealed disgust, he added, “Shame about the timing. Could’ve taken out the competition on the way down.”
Another gust of icy air whipped through the pub, rattling the bottles behind the bar. The flames danced violently, throwing shadows across the walls. The temperature plummeted another ten degrees, as if something invisible had just opened a freezer door. Tessa’s breath misted in the air, and she had the distinct impression that whatever presence they’d disturbed downstairs was not impressed with Sebastian’s timing.
“Brilliant,” she muttered under her breath. “Even the ghosts don’t like you.”
Sebastian’s lips curved in that maddeningly knowing smile reminding her that they’d spent the past few weeks in a careful dance of mutual antagonism. “Have I come at a bad time?” his voice carried that infuriating note of amusement. “I’d hoped we might continue our ongoing...negotiations.”
The way he said negotiations made it sound like something far more intimate than property acquisition. Which was ridiculous. And inappropriate. And absolutely not making her pulse quicken.
Tessa opened her mouth to reply—likely with something sharp enough to cut glass—but the remaining half of the mirror chose that exact moment to crack and fall with a tremendous crash.
She stumbled backward, foot catching on the edge of the rug. Sebastian’s hands caught her before she hit the floor—one at her waist, the other steadying her shoulder. The contact sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with ghostly temperature drops and everything to do with the fact that Sebastian was suddenly, impossibly close.
Close enough that she could smell his cologne—something expensive and woody that probably cost more than her monthly utilities. Close enough to see the rain droplets still clinging to his dark lashes. Close enough to notice that his perfectly composed expression had cracked just slightly, revealing something almost...concerned?
His hands were warm against her rain-chilled skin, steady and sure. For one absurd moment, she wondered what those hands would feel like threading through her hair, cupping her face, pulling her closer instead of just keeping her upright.
Their eyes met, and for one breathless moment, Tessa forgot how to be irritated with him. Which was a problem, because being irritated with Sebastian was basically her full-time hobby.
“Steady on,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. The words brushed against her ear, sending an entirely unwelcome shiver down her spine.
Reality crashed back. Tessa yanked herself free so quickly she nearly stumbled again—which would have been mortifying, because Sebastian was exactly the type to catch her twice in one evening and somehow make it look effortless. She could practically see the headlines: “Local Pub Owner Falls for Developer (Literally).”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, trying to ignore the way her skin still tingled where he’d touched her. “But I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet.”
“Most of the time,” Sebastian murmured, and she couldn’t tell if he was being helpful or insufferable. Probably both.
“We just found human remains in the cellar,” she announced, all business. If he wanted to play games, she’d remind him exactly why his acquisition plans were about to become significantly more complicated.
To his credit, Sebastian only blinked once. “Fascinating,” he said quietly, and something in his tone suggested he actually meant it.
“And extremely inconvenient for your development plans,” she added, her voice crisp with satisfaction.
He studied her for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “On the contrary, Ms. Lawson. I’ve never been more intrigued.” His gray eyes held hers with an intensity that made her pulse skip. “Though I have to say, discovering bodies in cellars isn’t typically part of my property assessments. You’re certainly making this acquisition...memorable.”
He paused, tilting his head with that maddening half-smile of his. “You didn’t murder anyone, did you? Because for you, I might consider helping hide the body.”
The comment caught her so off-guard that she nearly smiled. Nearly. Instead, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Only developers who show up uninvited during family emergencies.”
“Noted.” His smile widened just a fraction. “I’ll be sure to call ahead next time I plan to nearly get killed by flying mirrors.”
Despite herself, Tessa felt her lips twitch. The man was infuriating, but she had to admit he had decent reflexes under pressure. And that dry wit of his was almost...charming.
Almost.
He glanced past her to Oliver—just a flick of his eyes, but enough. The tension between them sparked like a live wire. Oliver’s jaw ticked in that way it did when he was working very hard to remain polite.
“Oliver,” Sebastian said with a nod. “Still playing the benevolent benefactor, I see.”
“Sebastian,” Oliver replied evenly. “Still trying to buy your way into places you’re not wanted, I see.”
Tessa watched the exchange with growing irritation. She didn’t know the whole backstory between them, but she’d seen enough pointed barbs to recognize a grudge when she saw one. And she was firmly on Oliver’s side, thank you very much.
Sebastian turned back to her, seemingly unbothered by Oliver’s dig. “The Red Lion seems determined to keep things interesting,” he said, his gaze sweeping the pub with what looked like genuine appreciation. “Ancient bones, supernatural mirrors, mysterious discoveries. It’s almost as if the building itself is fighting back.”
“Maybe it is,” Tessa said quietly, thinking of the bone-deep chill that had wrapped around her in the hidden room. “Old places have long memories.”
Something shifted in Sebastian’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. “You believe that? That buildings can...remember?”
The question was asked without his usual urbane detachment. For a moment, he sounded almost curious. Human, even.
Tessa hesitated. Three years ago, she would have laughed at the suggestion. But three years ago, she hadn’t spent countless nights in The Red Lion, feeling the weight of its history in every creaking board and settling stone. She hadn’t experienced the moments of inexplicable cold, the sense of being observed by eyes she couldn’t see.
“I believe some places hold onto the past,” she said carefully. “And sometimes, the past isn’t ready to let go.”
Sebastian studied her face with an intensity that made her want to fidget. “Interesting theory,” he said finally. “I’d like to hear more about it sometime.”
The way he said it—quiet, almost intimate—made heat flutter in her chest. Which was ridiculous. She was not fluttering over Sebastian Westfield. She had standards.
Low standards, apparently, but still.
Tessa reached for her phone, desperate to break whatever spell he seemed to weave just by existing in her vicinity. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Westfield, I have a call to make.”
“Of course.” He stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes never left her face. “Though I hope we’ll have a chance to continue this conversation soon. About the building’s...memories.”
She turned, spine straight, jaw set. But as she moved away, she caught his reflection in a shard of mirror—watching her with a look far too interested for her peace of mind.
The Red Lion had secrets. But so did Sebastian. And she had the sinking feeling that both were about to turn her carefully ordered world completely upside down.