The Billionaire's Intern (Maya Thompson) novel Chapter 383

Chapter 173: A Bloodline Unspoken-1

The air around Maya still felt heavy with the hush of the garden. The tree stood silent, patient, its carved initials glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Every word Dahlia had spoken

seemed to echo in her mind, each one settling like stone in her chest.

“Harringtons…” The name echoed once in her mind before realization struck.

Her eyes widened.

“You mean-the royal family Harringtons?”

Dahlia offered a warm, unassuming smile.

“Yes.”

Maya’s breath caught as pieces fell into place too quickly to ignore.

“You and my mom…” she began softly.

Dahlia’s smile deepened, and she nodded.

“Smart girl.”

She gestured lightly around them.

“The Harringtons and the Lockwoods have maintained close ties for nearly a century. That’s how your mother and I met-through family gatherings, formal obligations, unavoidable proximity.”

Maya stared at her, still processing.

“But… how… you’re-”

Dahlia finished the thought gently.

“How my marriage to Dominic Blackwood was possible?”

Maya nodded.

“The Harringtons hail from old continental Europe-Northern Italy,” Dahlia continued, her tone calm but measured. “We are royal by lineage, yes, but never bound by rigid tradition.” She let the words linger for a moment. “That was my great-grandmother’s choice.”

She looked away, a distant softness settling over her features as memory tugged at her thoughts.

Chapter 173 A Blooding Unspoken 1

25 Points

“There was no male heir in her generation,” she said quietly. “And she refused to bind our lineage to political marriages-or to raise women who existed only to obey.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She believed strength should belong to us first.”

Her tone softened as she turned back to Maya.

“My great-grandmother left what was once considered home,” she said quietly. “She didn’t run from it-she simply chose a different path.”

Maya stayed silent, the weight of the story settling over her. She sensed this wasn’t a tale to be rushed.

“She came here and built something new,” Dahlia said softly. “Not a palace. Not a symbol.” A faint smile curved her lips. “A refuge.”

Her hand pressed lightly to the trunk of the tree. “This,” she continued, “was the first thing she planted.”

She drew a slow breath, letting the cool air of the garden fill her lungs before she spoke

again.

“A few years after she settled here,” Dahlia began, her voice gentle, almost reverent, “she started to carve a life for herself. Quietly, carefully. She built friendships, found her rhythm… her own little corner of the world.”

“And it was during that time she met my great-grandfather.” Dahlia’s lips curved in a soft, wistful smile. “Here, on this land, in this manor… they built a life together. A family.”

Her smile softened, genuine, almost wistful.

“You know… my grandmother was born on this very land, under the manor’s roof.”

Dahlia’s gaze drifted upward, as if the trees themselves held the memory she sought. “Life was simple then. Peaceful. Private. Here, they managed to draw a line between their responsibilities and their lives. Social engagements, political obligations, the expectations of their names-they kept all that at a distance.”

She leaned slightly against the tree, as if it held her steady. “They drew clear lines between duty and living, between what they owed the world and what they owed themselves. A space where the world couldn’t intrude, where the noise simply didn’t exist.”

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