My fingers skim along the ornate paneling, searching for anything that might hint at a hidden door, a downward staircase, or a sign pointing to an extensive collection of expensive alcohol just waiting for me to raid it.
After a few wrong turns and a detour past three separate formal dining rooms, too polished to have been used, I finally find it—a heavy wooden door set into the stone foundation of the house. I test the handle. Unlocked.
A small victory.
The air cools as I descend a short flight of stairs, the scent of aged oak and dust curling around me. The cellar is precisely as I hoped—rows upon rows of wine racks, bottles meticulously arranged, some so old their labels have faded into obscurity. I let out a small, satisfied huff, finally, something in this house I could actually use.
If I'm unable to escape, I'll indulge in my captor's comforts. Now, the real question is, what year do I feel like drinking?
The wine cellar is less of a dank, musty basement and more of a pristine, climate-controlled wine room, sleek and modern despite the estate’s otherwise old-world charm. Shelves upon shelves of bottles gleam under soft lighting, each label meticulously organized. Of course, it’s impressive. Everything in this house is.
I run my fingers along a row of bottles, scanning the names, the vintages. Some are absurdly rare, the kind of wine collectors would kill for. I’m not about to get on a ladder and risk my dignity, but I don’t need to. There are plenty of expensive options well within reach.
I pluck a bottle from the rack, turning it over in my hands. Château Lafite Rothschild, an excellent year. The kind of wine that should be uncorked at a gala, not stolen by a frustratedprisoner looking for a way to spite her captor. All the better. It’ll do.
Bottle in hand, and snagging a second one on my way out, as well as a single glass and bottle opener. I make my way back upstairs, my footsteps lighter now, almost triumphant. If I couldn’t escape, I could at least indulge. And if I had to be trapped here, I might as well do it with a very expensive drink in an extensive library.
That, at least, was a small luxury.
I settle into the library, the warmth of the grand fireplace licking at the edges of the dimly lit room. I start with a mission, combing through the endless shelves, fingers gliding over the spines of leather-bound books, searching for anything remotely useful. A family archive, hidden journals—anything that might give me more insight into Hayden and his world.
But after a while, it becomes obvious. Nothing here will help me. It’s all curated, a collection of first editions and history texts.
Until I stumbled into rows and rows of beautifully documented family history, housed in a built-in cabinet at the back of the hall-like room. Leather-bound volumes with gold detailing, archival boxes labeled by decade. It’s overwhelming in its precision, and yet, strangely intimate.
I skim through old documents and history ledgers. The family tree piques my interest. The record notes that Hayden’s parents, Christopher and Hailey, died when he was young. A tragic accident, it says.
I read further, fingers tightening on the edge of the page, and come across a greying newspaper clipping detailing the accident in stark, merciless lines. A gruesome account of a double murder aboard a yacht—both victims shot multiple times while their young son slept in the cabin below. There’s nothing about who carried out the slaughter. A handful of follow-up articles sit tucked behind it, each one confirming the same thing:
The case was never solved.
But what is clear from the clipping is this: there are no living relatives. Hayden inherits everything—the estate, the assets, the Legacy—and is placed under the guardianship of an elderly, distant cousin.
From there, his name resurfaces again and again, scattered through handwritten entries in old ledgers of titles and trusts. It’s as if someone, somewhere, kept trying to account for him.
Another journal entry explains that the distant cousin passed away not long after Hayden's eighteenth birthday, leaving him with no surviving relatives.
Slapping the journal down, I switch to another bound book. Then, the extensive wealth becomes clear: horses. The Herron family has bred them for generations. Arabians, Thoroughbreds, Andalusians. Auction records list bloodlines like royalty; some of them sold for more than most estates.
Photos of sprawling pastures, gilded trophies, letters from European stables, and private collectors. Every creature born was a statement of control, elegance, and power. And Hayden, it seems, was raised no differently.
It hurts to read about the horses, and it hurts even more to read about all of Hayden's loss.
So, I push the papers away, afraid of the gnawing feeling in my stomach.
I open the wine, helping myself to a large gulp before I continue.
But behind all of the leatherbound books is a small red diary, looking as if it’s more of a personal item than an archival piece. The red leather that envelops it is still new-looking, as though it isn’t as old or essential as the books surrounding it, but something in my chest knows better.
I curl up in a high-backed chair by the fire with my glass of wine, tucking in to read the little red diary. Each sip is divine–silky, rich, utterly wasted on someone who just wants to get a little drunk and forget, if only for a moment, that she’s trapped.
The second sip is even better.
By the third, I’m reclining back, one leg draped over the armrest, letting the fire’s glow blur the edges of my frustration. At least this, I can enjoy. At least this, I can control.
But my thoughts refuse to stay quiet. The alcohol does nothing to soften the lingering questions, the ones I’ve been too afraid to confront directly.
I open the diary to the middle, curious who it belongs to, but find out nearly instantly as the diary is inscribed with the owner's name atop each page:Hailey Herron,Hayden's mother. I snap the diary shut, too scared to intrude on the privacy of ghosts, but find myself cracking it back open again nonetheless, to take a small peek.
