The light slanted through the curtains in delicate streaks, like the fingers of dawn reaching out to press gently against Rhea's cheek.
She didn't move at first.
She simply lay there, wrapped in tangled sheets that smelled faintly of rosewood and the ghost of sleep. Her body was warm, her thoughts already racing.
What was that last night?
Her fingers curled around the edge of the duvet as she stared at the ceiling. It wasn't just the library.
It was him.
Lucien.
The silence. The closeness. The way the air had turned thick the moment he stood in the same room as her. As if her body belonged to another time, another instinct, whenever he neared.
And she hated it.
She hated how her breath caught without permission, how her skin warmed before logic could catch up.
She hated the question buried inside her chest: why does he still affect me like this?
She didn't want answers. Or maybe she did. Maybe she was already spiraling in search of them.
A sharp trill cut through the hush.
Her phone.
Rhea startled upright, heart thudding. The screen glowed against the nightstand, name and photo bright.
Adrian.
Her boyfriend.
Right.
She stared at the device as if it were a relic from another life. For a moment—just a moment—she'd forgotten.
Forgotten him.
Forgotten them.
What kind of spell had Lucien cast on her?
With a breath that shook more than it should have, she picked it up and swiped.
"Hey," she said, voice soft and smooth, trying to summon the version of herself she wore in the city.
"Rhea," Adrian's voice filled the line, warm and familiar. "God, finally. I've called twice already. You okay?"
She closed her eyes briefly, let her head tip back against the headboard.
"Yeah, sorry. The signal out here is... medieval."
A chuckle from the other end. "Sounds about right. I saw the pictures you sent. That place looks like Dracula's summer home."
Her lips quirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Something like that."
"You settling in?"
She paused.
A beat.
Then two.
"Trying to."
The silence on his end wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't the anchor she needed either.
"You sound tired. You sure everything's okay?"
No.
"Just... the house. It's strange. It brings up a lot."
Adrian sighed. "You don't have to stay the full three months, you know. Screw the inheritance. Come home."
Home.
Where was that, really?
"I need to do this," she said quietly. "For Evie. For Gran."
A pause.
Then, gentler: "Alright. Just don't forget about me in that haunted castle of yours."
Her smile finally met her voice. "As if I could."
They exchanged a few more words—safe, easy. The way they always did. But when she hung up, the phone felt heavier in her hand.
And her chest felt... not empty. Not full.
Just confused.
She rose from the bed, slowly this time. Her limbs moved with hesitation, as if sleep still clung to her bones. She padded across the room, opening the wardrobe doors with practiced care.
Muted tones. No red. No silk. Nothing loud.
A soft grey turtleneck. Cream trousers. She pulled her hair back loosely, left her lips bare.
She did not look directly in the mirror. Only in passing, as if catching a stranger's gaze might fracture her already unsettled skin.
Then she stepped into the corridor.
The house was hushed, as if the walls were waiting to hear something.
She moved through the hallways like a shadow cast before the sun—seen but not acknowledged. The staff nodded politely but didn't speak. Eyes dipped downward, not out of disrespect, but... something else.
A wariness.
Or guilt.
Her steps slowed as she reached the main hallway. There, nestled on a carved mahogany table beneath a tall arched window, stood a vase.
Crystal. Angular. A faint amber tint at its rim.
Her breath caught.
She knew that vase.
It used to live in her grandmother's sitting room, always full of lilies. Always next to the fireplace where Rhea would curl up and read while her grandmother's knitting needles clicked beside her.
Lucien used to sit cross-legged on the floor, reading aloud from whichever fantasy novel Rhea had dragged in from the dusty library.
Her grandmother had called him her shadow.
"That boy follows you like a ghost in daylight," she'd once said, half-joking, half-prophetic.
Rhea touched the vase gently, fingers brushing the cool rim.
What was Lucien's place in all of this?
Not just now.
Back then.
He'd been part of this house longer than she had.
Deeper.
Embedded.
Like the vines that had never stopped climbing the estate's outer walls.
She stepped back.
Suddenly aware that maybe... she'd never truly understood what kind of roots Lucien Vale had sunk into this family.
She didn't know why she wandered into the gardens.
Maybe it was the silence of the house. Maybe it was the memory of lilies in that vase. Or maybe it was simply the weight of Lucien's presence still haunting the halls like unspoken thunder.
The sun was gentler here—filtered through the overgrowth of vines and weathered statues half-swallowed by ivy. Her boots crunched softly along the stone path that coiled like a spine through the grounds. Everything smelled damp and green and faintly nostalgic.
She passed by a greenhouse—its windows fogged from the inside—Evie's soft hum barely audible from within. Rhea didn't stop. Not yet.
Further along the path, she spotted the workers again. Lugging crates, clearing debris, restoring the long-forgotten fountains with surgical precision.
But it wasn't the noise that caught her breath.
It was the absence.
There.
Under the shadow of the east turret—Lucien.
Again.
He was watching something in the distance, expression unreadable. His posture relaxed but alert, as if he were part of the land and separate from it all at once. He hadn't seen her yet.
She froze.
And time bent.
She remembered this path—where they used to play hide and seek, where he once dared her to climb the stone arch over the garden gate. She had skinned her knee, cried, and he had kissed her hand in mock apology, calling her Lady Voss.
Back then, she could read every twitch of his mouth. Back then, he let her win.
Now, she didn't know who he was.
Rhea took a slow step forward.
The gravel crunched.
Lucien turned his head slightly—just enough to register her presence, but not enough to grant her a real look.
She cleared her throat.
"Nice to see you out here among the mortals."
He didn't smile. But something in his jaw ticked.
She hated how that small shift made her heart quicken.
"I used to think you hated sunlight," she tried again.
Still no reply. Just that cool, indifferent gaze, angled just above her shoulder.
"Are you going to ignore me forever, or do I need to schedule a formal appointment through Agnes?"
Finally, he moved.
Just a step. Just enough to face her fully.
And then—"Why are you really here, Rhea?"
Her breath hitched. Not because of the question. But because he'd said her name.
Like a verdict.
And for the first time in days, she didn't have an answer ready.
Rhea didn't answer his question. Not immediately.
The breeze slipped between them like a silent spectator. It carried the scent of wet stone, earth, and something faintly herbal—like rosemary warmed by sun.
"I could ask you the same," she murmured, voice steadier than she felt. "What are you doing here, really?"
Lucien tilted his head slightly, as if the question amused him—but not enough to show it.
"I never left," he said.
A simple statement. An impossible truth.
Rhea's gaze drifted to the trees behind him, their branches bending like old bones. A memory rose—of her, at twelve, chasing him barefoot through this same garden, her laughter echoing against stone. Lucien had been faster, taller, older, but he always slowed. Let her catch him. Let her believe she could.
But this man? He wasn't slowing down for anyone.
"Why didn't you write?" she asked, hating herself the second it slipped out.
Lucien blinked. A soft pause.
"Would it have mattered?"
"To me?" she snapped, then recoiled at the sharpness in her own voice.
The silence between them thickened. Somewhere behind them, a bird took flight, its wings cutting through the hush with sharp precision.
Lucien finally looked at her—not above her, not around her—but at her.
And it hurt.
There was no warmth. No nostalgia. Just cool appraisal.
"You left," he said quietly. "And you took the noise with you."
She stared, unblinking.
Then: "You think this place went quiet because I left?"
He said nothing.
Her hands curled into fists, more from confusion than rage.
"You're infuriating," she muttered.
"And you're trespassing," he replied.
Their eyes locked.
It wasn't a threat. Not truly. But it felt like one.
Rhea's breath caught. Her skin prickled.
She stepped back—not in retreat, but to keep herself from reaching for something she didn't understand.
Lucien turned again, without waiting for her reply.
And this time, she didn't stop him.
She let him disappear around the curve of the turret like a phantom returning to the shadows.
Later that evening, long after the sun had dropped behind the estate's silhouette, Rhea found herself walking the second-floor gallery alone.
The corridor was dim, lit only by the occasional wall sconce, its flickering bulb casting long, dancing shadows over old oil paintings and covered furniture. The kind of corridor that belonged to childhood nightmares—too quiet, too ornate, too reverent.
She wasn't even sure why she turned into the small storage parlor near the southern wing. Just a feeling—something pulling at her, something waiting.
The door creaked open like it hadn't been used in years.
The room smelled of dust and age—leather-bound volumes, polished wood, mothballs, and the faintest trace of jasmine. Her grandmother's scent.
She moved slowly, reverently, trailing her fingers along old photo frames, their surfaces dulled with time. She picked one up, brushed the glass clean with her sleeve—and froze.
It was a photograph.
Her.
Evie.
Her mother.
And Lucien.
All standing in front of the estate's fountain—years ago. A spring afternoon. Rhea remembered this. She'd been thirteen. Lucien sixteen. Their mother's smile was tired. Evie had flowers in her hair.
But that wasn't what stopped her breath.
Her face—her face—had been crossed out.
Not scratched in anger, not ripped.
No—a single line, made with something dark red. Precise. Almost surgical. Across her eyes.
Rhea's hand trembled as she lowered the frame.
What kind of person does that?
What kind of memory leaves a mark like that?
She turned the photo over, hoping for explanation.
Nothing.
Just dust.
And then—she saw it.
A letter.
Folded cleanly. Tucked beneath the stack of frames. Not aged like the rest. Crisp. Intentional.
She unfolded it with slow fingers.
The handwriting was unfamiliar. Elegant. Slanted.
"He is dangerous for you.
You should have never returned."
No name.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just that.
Rhea stared at the words until they stopped making sense.
Then folded the letter back with fingers that didn't quite feel like her own.
She backed out of the room slowly, turned without a word, and walked—almost in a trance—back to her suite.
But long after the door clicked shut behind her, long after the lamps were turned low and her robe hung on its hook, Rhea stood in front of the window, staring into the black silhouette of the garden.
Lucien Vale was still out there.
And now, someone in this house wanted her to fear him.
Or worse—
Wanted her gone.