The footsteps stopped.
Not like someone reaching the end of a hallway. No. They stopped as if whoever—or whatever—was walking had turned to listen.
To them.
Julian stepped forward, placing an arm instinctively in front of Cassandra.
"Protective much?" she whispered, her voice dry but trembling.
"Just making sure if someone dies first, it's me."
"Wow. That almost sounded like affection."
"Don't get used to it."
They waited. Silence stretched so long it felt like a sound in itself.
Then—nothing.
No crash. No ghost. No scream.
Just that portrait.
Staring.
Julian finally exhaled. "We should stop wandering around at night. You know, like every idiot in a horror movie."
Cassandra nodded. "Right after we burn that painting."
"I'll get the matches."
He was joking. She hoped.
Back in the main parlor, Cassandra curled up near the fire, blanket around her shoulders, mug in hand. Julian handed her a second cocoa. "Extra cinnamon, no sugar. My new specialty."
"You're flirting again."
"Only slightly. It's how I cope with existential dread."
She gave him a sideways glance. "It's annoying how charming you are."
He smirked. "It's a curse."
Cassandra studied the flames for a while. "Do you think she's really a ghost? Your grandmother?"
Julian took a seat across from her, knees brushing hers. "I don't know. But something's off. Elise never said she wasn't the woman in the portrait. And my father never mentioned having siblings, but there were three kids in that attic photo with her."
"You think there's family history we don't know about?"
"I think there's something the house doesn't want us to know."
Cassandra shivered. "This would make a great podcast."
Julian grinned. "Cursed Marriage Chronicles: How I Met Your Murderer."
She laughed—genuinely. "Episode One: My Fiancé Made Cocoa and Found a Corpse."
"You flatter me."
There was a pause. Then Cassandra's expression softened. "You know... you're not what I expected."
Julian tilted his head. "Do I dare ask?"
"I thought you'd be cold. Calculated. Like... one of those guys who calls women 'darling' and fires people over email."
"I have done that," he admitted. "But only once. And she stole a company drone."
"Still. You're funny. Kind. Occasionally heroic. And when you're not being an insufferable flirt, you're almost tolerable."
He smiled slowly. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me."
"I'm under duress."
But she didn't look away.
Neither did he.
The moment stretched—taut and crackling, like the fire beside them.
Then Julian leaned in, just a little.
"Cass?"
Her breath caught. "Yeah?"
"If I kiss you now, are you going to blame it on the storm later?"
She gave him a half-lidded look. "Maybe."
He inched closer. "Good. Then I won't feel guilty."
Their lips met—softly at first, uncertain, like testing the edge of something dangerous.
Then something shifted.
The kiss deepened. Her fingers curled in his shirt. His hand tangled in her hair. The fire roared louder. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed.
Neither noticed.
Not at first.
Until the floor creaked above them again.
Julian pulled back. "Was that...?"
Cassandra stood. "The east wing."
They looked at each other.
"No," Julian said.
"Yes," Cassandra countered. "If this house is going to kill us, I want to at least know why."
They crept down the corridor, flashlight in hand, hearts pounding harder than their footsteps.
The east wing was colder than the rest of the house. The wallpaper had peeled, the lights had long burned out. A strange smell lingered—like earth and smoke and old paper.
They reached a heavy oak door. Unlike the others, this one had no handle.
Just an indentation in the shape of a hand.
Cassandra blinked. "What kind of Scooby-Doo hell is this?"
Julian touched it. Nothing happened.
Cassandra stepped forward, pressing her hand to the stone.
Click.
The door groaned open.
Inside was a circular chamber—books lining every wall, a desk in the center. A dusty chandelier above. Papers scattered across the floor. And a journal, open to a page written in crimson ink.
> If Cassandra finds this, it means I've failed.
> The curse is real. The bloodline is bound. She must leave. Or she will be next.
Julian picked it up, reading aloud. "What the hell...?"
Cassandra's voice was a whisper. "My name. That's my name."
There was a second book beside it. A family tree.
Ashfords.
Beaumonts.
Intertwined.
Over generations.
Julian flipped the page. "This goes back two centuries."
"And look—" she pointed. "Margaret Beaumont. That's my mom. Why is she here—listed as part of the Ashford bloodline?"
Julian's face drained of color. "Because she was. My father's second cousin. They never told us."
"So this marriage—this merger—wasn't just business."
Julian closed the book. "It was tradition. Every generation."
"To bind the families."
"And the curse."
Cassandra turned slowly. "What curse?"
The chandelier above them creaked. A cold wind swept through the sealed room.
Then the door slammed shut behind them.
And the candle on the desk flickered to life.
No flame.
Just light.
Julian took her hand. "Okay. New plan. We break a window, we climb out, and we move to Aruba."
Cassandra squeezed his fingers. "I'm in."