"No, Sterling. You don't understand. Vance isn't just off the board." Alaric’s voice drops. I have to strain to hear. "Vance had an accident this morning. Brake failure on the slick roads. Tragically fatal."
I freeze. My blood runs cold. The riding crop slips from my hand and clatters to the floor.
Alaric stops talking. Silence. Then, his voice, not on the phone, but directed at the door. Directed at me.
"Come in, Elodie."
I push the door open. Alaric is sitting behind a desk, the phone in his hand. He looks calm. He looks at me, and then at the riding crop on the floor.
"Vance is dead?" I whisper.
Alaric hangs up the phone. "Vance was a threat," he says simply. "To the facility. And to you." He stands up and walks around the desk. "I told you last night. I protect what is mine."
"You killed him."
"I removed an obstacle." He stops in front of me. "Does it bother you?"
I stare at him. This man is a murderer. He is a monster. He just admitted to cutting the brakes of a man's car because he touched my arm at dinner. I should be horrified. I should be screaming for the police.
But then I remember Vance’s hand on my skin. The slime of his gaze. The way he looked at me like meat. And I remember Alaric’s hand on my thigh. Alaric’s voice telling me to lean forward. Alaric saving me.
"No," I say. The word is quiet. Terrible. "It doesn't bother me."
Alaric smiles. It is the most terrifying smile I have ever seen. "Then the lesson is complete."
He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Go shower,petite. You smell like horse." He leans in and kisses my forehead. "Tonight, we play duets."
I turn and walk out into the rain. I don't look back. I know what I am becoming. And God help me, I am ready for the next movement.
CHAPTER 11
THE DEVIL’S CHORD
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Music Room (Night)
Track:Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor (Adagio Sostenuto)– Sergei Rachmaninoff
Sensory:The scent of rain-soaked earth fading into lemon polish, the radiant heat of a fireplace, the vibration of ivory keys under four hands.
Mood:Artistic Obsession & Complicity.
The rain hasn't stopped. If anything, it has intensified, drumming a relentless, erratic rhythm against the tall windows of the Music Room. It is the only chaotic sound allowed in this space tonight.
Everything else is curated silence.
I am sitting on the leather bench of the Steinway, but I am not playing. Not yet. I am waiting. Alaric told me to wait.“Tonight, we play duets.”
The words echo in my mind, tangled with the memory of the phone call I overheard in the office.Vance is dead.I should be trembling. I should be looking at the exits, calculating the distance to the door, wondering if the police will come knocking. But I am calm. A terrifying, glassy calm that feels like the surface of a frozen lake.
I look at my reflection in the black lacquer of the piano lid. The girl staring back is wearing the black dress again—the one with the open back. The silver padlock choker glints at my throat. My lips are still swollen, a permanent reminder of his mouth. My hands, resting in my lap, are steady. I killed a man today. Technically, Alaric killed him. But my silence pulled the trigger. My acceptance buried the body. And instead of guilt, all I feel is... lightness. The weight of the prey is gone. I am becoming the predator.
The heavy oak doors open. Alaric enters.
He has changed from his riding gear into a black dress shirt and dark trousers. He is barefoot. The informality of it—the sight of the Director of Hallowed Halls without shoes—feels intimate, illicit. It signals that we are off the clock. We are not Doctor and Patient. We are not Warden and Prisoner. We are just Alaric and Elodie.
He carries a bottle of dark amber liquid and two crystal glasses. He walks to the piano, placing the glasses on the lid. The sound of crystal on wood is sharp, precise. He pours. "Cognac," he says, his voice low, blending with the sound of the rain. "To warm the blood."
