The master bedroom is massive. A king bed on a platform. Fur rugs. A fireplace. I open the closet. It is filled with clothes.Mysize. Cashmere sweaters. Silk trousers. Lingerie. Everything is new. Tags still on. He prepared this. He has been planning this escape—or this abduction—for a long time.
I rifle through the drawers. Nothing personal. Just expensive fabric. I check the bathroom. Marble. Soaking tub. No toothbrush. No stray hairs. It has been scrubbed clean.
"Come on," I whisper to myself. "Where are you, Clara?"
I leave the bedroom and walk down the hallway. There is a door at the end. Closed. I try the handle. Locked.
My heart speeds up. Alaric said the master suite was downstairs. He didn't mention a second room. I look at the lock. It’s a simple key lock, not biometric. I check my pockets. I still have the riding crop, but that won't help. I run back to the bedroom. I check the nightstand. The drawers. Nothing.
Then I remember the riding clothes. Alaric’s jacket. He took it off upstairs.
I run back up the stairs, my boots thudding softly. His leather jacket is draped over the couch. I pat the pockets. Phone. (Locked). Wallet. (Black Amex. Cash. ID that saysDr. A. Graves). Keys. A ring of keys.
I grab them. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop them. I run back down. I stand in front of the locked door. I try the first key. Too big. The second. Too small. The third... a small, silver key. It fits. It turns.
Click.
I push the door open. The air that rushes out is stale. Cold. It smells of... Rosin. Old wood. And dust.
I fumble for the light switch. The lights flicker on—track lighting illuminating the center of the room. I gasp.
It’s not a bedroom. It’s a shrine. Or a graveyard.
In the center of the room stands a cello case. Hard shell. Black. It is standing upright, like a coffin. Around it, the walls are covered in acoustic foam. There is a music stand. And on the stand, there is sheet music.Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major.Bach.
I walk into the room. My legs feel like water. I approach the case. I undo the latches.Snap. Snap. Snap.I open it.
The cello is inside. It is a magnificent instrument. Old Italian wood. Varnish the color of blood. But it is broken. The neck is snapped clean off the body. The strings are tangled, sharp wire protruding like entrails. It looks like it was smashed. With violence. With rage.
I reach out to touch the splintered wood. And then I see it. Tucked behind the broken neck. A small, leather-bound journal.
I grab it. I open it. The handwriting is frantic. Jagged.
April 4th:He brought me here today. He calls it our sanctuary. He says the world is too loud for my music. He says he wants to keep me pure.
May 12th:The glass walls. I hate them. I feel like he’s watching me even when he’s not here. He made me play for six hours today. My fingers bled. He kissed the blood. He said it tasted like devotion.
June 20th:I tried to leave. I walked to the treeline. The sensors tripped. He was there in minutes. He wasn't angry. That was the worst part. He was disappointed. He carried me back. He locked the door.
July 15th:I can't do it. The pressure. He wants perfection. He wants me to be a goddess. I’m just a girl. I’m just Clara. I have to break the spell. If I stop the music, maybe he’ll let me go.
July 16th:I broke it. I smashed the cello. I screamed at him. I told him I wasn't his Muse. I told him I was pregnant.
I stop reading. Pregnant. My hand flies to my mouth.
July 16th (Later):He went crazy. He didn't hit me. He just... stared. He said chaos cannot breed. He said I ruined the duet. He’s taking me to the elevator shaft. He says we need to go back to the facility. To 'fix' the mistake.
The entries end there.
I drop the journal. It hits the floor with a thud that sounds like a gavel.He took me to the elevator shaft.Accidental Fall.
Sterling wasn't lying. He killed her. He brought her here, he isolated her, he obsessed over her. And when she "ruined the duet"—when she got pregnant, when she became real instead of a fantasy—he disposed of her.
And now I am here. I am the replacement.Phase Two.
"I have to get out," I whisper.
I turn to run. And I scream.
