I quickly shut the door to the red room and turned just in time, when a shadow stretched along the dimly lit corridor outside the library.
My breath hitched. Still in the wrong place. Still too close to the truth.
I turned just as the heavy door creaked open.
Elena.
Her wide brown eyes flickered between me and the bookshelf, but she didn’t speak right away. The silence carried its own accusations.
What did you see?
Do you know what happens to people who dig too deep?
But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, her voice was a breath above a whisper, “Miss… you should return to your room.”
Not 'What are you doing here?’ Not 'Should I call for help?'
Just that.
And that’s when I realised—Elena was neither friend nor enemy. She was something worse.
A bystander.
She knew exactly what kind of man he was. And she did nothing.
“Is he looking for me?” I asked, my voice even despite the chill creeping up my spine. I damn well knew he wasn’t at home, so whatever kept my skin attached.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her apron.
For a moment—just a moment—I saw something flicker across her expression. Regret? Pity? Fear?
“Not yet.” A pause. Then, even softer, “But he will once he’s back.”
A shiver slithered down my spine.
He will.
Elena was right.
By the time the summons arrived, I had already been waiting for it. It didn’t make sense, how I’d been messed up throughout the day, thinking about the inevitable. I wonder if Elena snitched. Knowing her loyalty to him, she would. She should.
Yet only a few words left her mouth. “He wants you in his office.”
I should’ve run. I should’ve burned this house down.
Instead, I rose from my chair, exhaling slowly.
Into the lion’s den, then.
The air smelled like fresh-cut roses and wealth when I made my way downstairs, and it made me sick. The walls were lined with the kind of artwork people killed for. The chandeliers dripped with more money than most would make in a lifetime.
And the man who owned it all?
A monster wearing a tailored suit.
The study was warm, dimly lit, thick with the scent of leather and whiskey—like power wrapped in something deceptively soft. It smelled like him. Strangely his. Unmistakably his.
He was sitting behind the massive wooden desk, sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms lined with veins and… scars. Scars that didn’t look like accidents.
