“Would you believe me if I said I was at the wrong party at the wrong time?” Selene smirks, but there’s a flicker of something more serious in her eyes. “Long story. Basically, I don’t take orders well. Which makes me the least favorite person on this estate, except maybe you right now.”
I can’t help it—my lips twitch, just a little.
Selene nods at Lily. “She okay?”
“She’s exhausted,” I say, softer.
“Yeah. You both look like you haven’t slept in a year.” She leans forward, elbows on knees. “Listen, I don’t know what Irina’s up to, but I know how this place works. You want something, you tell me. You need something for the kid, or you just need to yell at someone who won’t rat you out, I’m your girl.”
“Why help me?” I ask.
“I’m not helping you at all,” she says.
What’s that supposed to mean?
She stands, stretching, clearly at ease in her own skin. “Try the chocolate, by the way. Best thing you’ll find in this mausoleum. I’ll come back later. And hey—don’t let them scare you. They feed off it.”
She winks and heads for the door, pausing just before she leaves. “Rest. I’ve got a feeling we’re both going to need it.”
The lock clicks shut after her.
Morning comes without warning—just a pale shaft of light on the ceiling, Lily’s soft weight curled against my side, and the distant sound of a door unlocking. My heart jumps. I get to my feet as aman steps in—not the brute from yesterday, but someone older, suit a little too crisp for this hour, face unreadable.
“You’re wanted downstairs,” he says. His voice is flat, polite enough to not be a threat but firm enough to tell me I don’t have a choice.
I scoop Lily up, keeping her close. The man doesn’t rush us. He leads the way out into a hallway so long it almost echoes, the walls lined with portraits and silver-framed photographs. The silence is heavy, but not empty—more like the hush before something important.
We pass a series of paintings: a winter landscape, a somber woman in pearls, a family crest. Then I see it—a large, formal portrait of a man with cold, striking features. He looks powerful, and unsettlingly familiar. My stomach twists.
We stop just as I’m staring at the painting, trying to place where I’ve seen those eyes before.
“She has your curiosity,” comes a smooth, accented voice from behind us.
I turn.
Irina stands there, already dressed like she’s going to a board meeting or a funeral—black suit, white blouse, every line precise. She gives me a thin, knowing smile, then glances at the portrait.
“That’s my son,” she says, as if that explains everything. Her gaze flicks to Lily, then back to me, measuring. “You recognize him?”
I nod, wary. “He looks familiar.”
She smiles, but it’s more like she’s baring her teeth. “You could say he has a way of leaving an impression.”
We walk together, Irina and I, Lily in my arms. She doesn’t slow for me, and I keep pace because I refuse to look weaker than I am.
One portrait makes me slow down without meaning to. It’s a man in a dark suit, older, severe, the kind of face that looks like it never had to ask permission.
Irina notices my pause. “Don’t waste time on ghosts,” she says, not looking at it. Her voice is flat, bored even, like she has lived under those eyes for decades.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask again, because nobody has actually answered me. “Why am I here?”
She’s silent.
I finally force out, “I don’t understand what you want from us.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stops by a window overlooking the estate grounds. The morning light makes her face look older, colder.
“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she says quietly. “That’s all it takes. You met a man four years ago. You should have walked away and never looked back. But you didn’t.”
