Episode 4 – Shadows in the West Wing
The storm had not stopped since dusk. Rain lashed against the tall windows of the Hawthorne estate, streaking the glass like silver threads. Thunder rolled in the distance, deep and hollow, as if the sky itself whispered warnings. The old house groaned with every gust of wind, and in that eerie stillness, Ella felt more like a trespasser than a bride.
Her chamber, a sprawling room lined with velvet drapes and ornate mirrors, seemed to swallow her whole. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the walls, turning the carved angels on the ceiling into twisted, watchful figures. She sat at the edge of the four-poster bed, her fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of the blanket, her mind circling the same thought: What had she signed up for?
From somewhere down the corridor came the echo of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy enough to be heard over the rain. Ella's breath caught. She remembered Adrian's words from earlier that evening, his voice low, almost warning:
"There are parts of this house you must never enter, no matter what you hear. Especially the West Wing. Curiosity here is not just dangerous—it's fatal."
She had nodded then, more out of fear than agreement, but now those words wrapped around her like chains. Her curiosity was already burning. And worse—those footsteps were coming from the very direction Adrian had forbidden.
The footsteps stopped. Silence.
Then… a faint scratching sound, like nails dragging along wood, drifted through the corridor.
Ella stood, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. Every instinct screamed at her to stay put, to lock the door, but something stronger—an ache to know what Adrian was hiding—pulled her forward. She draped a silk shawl over her shoulders and slipped into the dimly lit hallway.
The air outside her room was colder, as if the temperature itself dropped the closer she moved toward the West Wing. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the sconces along the wall flickered, their flames straining against an unseen draft.
She passed painting after painting—portraits of stern-faced Hawthorne ancestors, each with the same piercing gray eyes Adrian had. Their gazes seemed to follow her, silently accusing her intrusion. Her hand brushed against the wall to steady herself, and that's when she noticed it: a smear of something dark near one of the doorframes. Dried. Brownish-red.
Blood? Or perhaps just rust from the old hinges? She told herself the latter, though her racing pulse betrayed her disbelief.
A sudden sound froze her in place. A low, resonant hum. Not mechanical, not natural. It seemed to pulse through the walls, like the heartbeat of the house itself.
And then—Adrian's voice, deep and commanding, cut through the darkness behind her.
"Ella."
She spun around. He stood at the end of the corridor, his black coat trailing behind him like a shadow. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those cold, storm-gray eyes—held a sharp edge.
"What are you doing here?" His tone was calm, but beneath it was steel.
Ella swallowed hard. "I heard… something. Footsteps. I thought—"
"You thought you'd wander into the one place I told you never to go?" He stepped closer, his presence filling the corridor. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if you opened one of those doors?"
Her lips trembled. "Then tell me what's behind them, Adrian. What are you hiding from me?"
For a moment, his jaw tightened. His gaze flicked toward the end of the corridor—the heavy double doors of the West Wing, bolted shut with iron locks. When he looked back at her, there was something raw in his expression, something that flickered between anger and… fear?
He reached her in two strides, his hand catching hers—not rough, but firm. The warmth of his touch contrasted the icy air, sending a confusing jolt through her chest.
"Some truths," he murmured, his voice dropping so low it was almost a whisper, "are far more dangerous than lies. If you want to survive this marriage, Ella, you will stay away from that wing. Promise me."
Her breath hitched. His closeness was suffocating, his scent—dark cedar and rain—curling around her senses. Against her better judgment, her heart betrayed her, thudding harder not from fear, but something she didn't dare name.
"I… promise," she said, though the words tasted like ash. She didn't mean them. Not entirely.
Adrian searched her face for a moment, as if he could see every thought she tried to hide. Then, without another word, he turned her by the shoulders and guided her back toward her chamber.
But just as she crossed the threshold of her room, another sound rose from the depths of the West Wing.
A scream. Faint, but real.
Ella whipped around, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"
Adrian froze. His hand, still on the doorknob, tightened until his knuckles whitened. His gaze flicked once more toward the forbidden wing, and for the first time since she'd met him, she saw it: a crack in his calm mask. Fear.
"No," he said finally, his voice colder than the rain outside. "You heard nothing. Go to bed."
And before she could argue, he shut the door—from the outside.
Ella stood in the dim room, her heart racing, the echo of that scream still ringing in her ears. Her hand pressed against the windowpane, raindrops cold against her fingertips. Somewhere beyond that storm, the Hawthorne estate's darkest secret was breathing, waiting… calling to her.
And she knew, with bone-deep certainty, that no lock, no warning, not even Adrian himself, could keep her from uncovering it.
To be continued...