I begin my descent into the Herron Estate, wandering the halls as if it's something I'm allowed to do. The first room I find is an eerie time capsule, draped in heavy sheets that billow slightly in the drafty air. The shapes beneath them are large and imposing. Statues, I realize, along with fainting chairs and other antique furniture, all abandoned like forgotten relics. Dust clings to the air, turning the soft morning light hazy as I run my fingers along the edge of a covered frame. Whatever this room was, it hadn’t been used in years.
The next door I push open reveals an even stranger sight, an entire room filled with chandeliers. Some hang from the ceiling, wrapped in protective cloth, while others rest on the ground, their crystals dulled by layers of dust. Some are missing pieces, clearly out of commission, likely stripped from unused halls throughout the estate. It looks as though it is a room with forgotten hosting materials; this estate, having once thrown grand parties, now reduced to a room full of dusted chandeliers no longer strung high to host the masses the ballroom could fit.
The sight is almost surreal, a graveyard of opulence. The home is massive; I could explore all day and still leave rooms unturned.
Looking at this in contrast to the room he gave me, I shudder. How did he know exactly what I needed? How some rooms remain untouched by time, and yet mine is a modern replica of the luxuries I’m used to. What angle is this? Having all my preferred items on hand is terrifying. But with an estate only partially tended to, it makes me wonder—how long has he been planning this?
Further down, I stumble into another wood-paneled room, this one lined with hunting equipment and sporting trophies. The gleam of polished wood and brass catches my eye, old shotguns mounted on the wall, antique hunting knives, and plaques marking victories in Ivy League rowing and other exclusive clubs: various honors, each one belonging to a Herron. I run my hand over a tarnished trophy, my fingers lingering on the engraved name:Christopher Herron.
The most extensive section is comprised of rows and rows of fencing medals, all inscribed with honors forHayden Herron. There are multiple miniature sword replicas, some mounted foil, épée, and sabre plaques, as well as multiple engraved blades awarding him for his winnings.
So, Hayden is a fencing star.
I wander further, the hallways shifting from polished perfection to an older, untouched grandeur. The walls are lined with towering oil paintings and black-and-white photographs, generations of Herrons staring down at me with expressions ranging from stoic to outright disdainful.
It starts with older names etched in plaques beneath their gilded frames, their eyes eerily lifelike in the dim light. Bonesmen and their Chosens as far back as the eighteenhundreds, grace the hall and as I walk farther and farther down it, their eyes follow me—judging me like I judge their union.
A particular portrait catches my eye. One of the men looks unnervingly like Hayden, though older, with the same cutting gaze and air of arrogance. His presence lingers, almost oppressive, as if even in paint, he refuses to be ignored. The woman at his side is breathtakingly beautiful. Thick blonde hair with light eyebrows and lashes, and perfectly pink, plump cheeks, I find it hard to look away from her beauty.Christopher and Hailey Herronare inscribed below it.
I shudder and move on, but the weight of all these eyes, all these ghosts, presses down on me.
Whatever Legacy Hayden carries, it’s been watching him his whole life. He’s not a founder's heir in the Brotherhood, but his family has been in the Society for almost as long as its inception. The portraits detail every member of the Brotherhood in his family.
I swallow hard, stepping back from the painting as if distance will change the truth. It doesn’t. It only makes it worse.
I continue wandering, moving past grand staircases and endless corridors, each one beginning to blur into the next, a maze of quiet opulence and shadowed corners. The silence grows heavier with each step, broken only by the faint creak of old floorboards beneath my feet and the occasional whisper of wind through drafty windows. Just as I begin to wonder if the house will ever end, I stumble upon a room that feels different—less like a passageway and more like a destination. A pair of heavy double doors stands slightly ajar, and through the gap, I catch a glimpse of tall shelves stretching toward a vaulted ceiling.
A library.
The moment I step inside, the weight of my failed escape plan lessens just a little. The room is massive, its towering shelvesstretching toward an intricately painted ceiling, the scent of aged paper and polished wood thick in the air. Heavy drapes frame tall windows, filtering in the pale morning light, casting long golden streaks across the plush rugs.
If all else fails, I could get lost in here.
The thought is almost comforting. Almost.
I force myself to move on, stepping back into the hall, trailing my fingers along the carved wood paneling as I go. The estate is too vast, too meticulously designed not to have secrets. And then, as I turn a corner, a flicker catches my eye—a thin gap in the paneling, a sliver of darkness where there shouldn’t be one.
Curious, I press my palm against it. The panel shifts slightly under my touch, and with a gentle push, it swings inward, revealing a narrow passageway beyond. A servant’s entry, maybe. Not entirely hidden, but discreet enough that I doubt many people notice it.
I step inside, my breath shallow as I ease the door closed behind me. The air is cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of dust and old wood. The corridor is narrow, dimly lit by a single overhead bulb. I follow it, my footsteps light against the worn floorboards until I reach a small room at the end.
The moment I step inside, my stomach drops.
Against one wall, a bank of at least fifty monitors flicker with grainy, black-and-white footage. The estate unfolds across the screens, with long, empty hallways, grand rooms, dimly lit staircases, and all the surrounding entrances, as well as various shrubs and gardens. My eyes dart from screen to screen, my pulse hammering.
Then I see it.
My room.
The camera is positioned from a high corner, capturing everything—the bed, the window, and the door. I watch the screen in frozen horror, recognizing my own movements fromearlier that morning. The way I stood at the window. The way I pulled on my sweater. Every second of my solitude is observed.
A cold chill spreads down my spine. It’s obvious. Because why wouldn’t there be cameras? Why wouldn’t he keep watch over every inch of his gilded cage? It’s not even shocking. Just another calculated move, another reminder that nothing I do here is truly my own.
I should be afraid, but instead I look around the room, feeling almost comforted by what I see. I grew up in a home with the same level of control. I’m not shocked, but the thrill of snooping around is now dulled, knowing there are few moves I’ll be making that he won't know about. Something like this isn’t unexpected from men like Hayden. I grew up knowing the Brotherhood is always watching.
I push away from the monitors, my breath even despite the unease curling in my stomach. There’s nothing I can do about it now, and stewing over it won’t change anything. If Hayden wants to watch me pace around like a trapped animal, let him.
I slip out of the hidden room, careful to close the panel behind me, and continue my search. The house stretches on in every direction, grand and sprawling, yet unnervingly empty. Eventually, I find my way to the back entrance, the scent of fresh air filtering in through the cracks around the doorframe. A long coat hangs nearby, thick and heavy, meant for braving the cold. I pull it on, along with a pair of wellies by the door. Practical, sturdy, perfect for marching across the damp earth outside.
