The Barton carriage was a prison on wheels. Black lacquered wood gleamed dully under the grey afternoon sky, the interior upholstered in deep, blood-red velvet that seemed to swallow the weak light. Sandra sat stiffly opposite her father, the rhythmic clatter of the horses' hooves the only sound in the oppressive silence. Arthur Middleton avoided her gaze, staring fixedly out the window at the increasingly manicured landscape as they climbed the hill towards the city's edge.
"You remember your duties," he said abruptly, not turning his head. His voice was tight, rehearsed. "Be respectful. Obedient. Do not pry. Your purpose is singular."
"To provide an heir and secure your money," Sandra stated flatly, the numbness from the day before replaced by a simmering resentment and bone-deep fear.
Arthur flinched, finally looking at her. His eyes held a flicker of the desperation she'd seen yesterday, quickly masked by sternness. "To secure the *family's* future, Sandra. Do not make this harder than it needs to be. The Bartons are not people to cross."
The carriage slowed, turning onto a long, graveled drive flanked by towering, ancient oaks whose gnarled branches intertwined overhead, creating a gloomy tunnel. Through the leaves, glimpses of imposing stone walls appeared, growing larger and more formidable with each turn.
Blackwood Castle wasn't merely a residence; it was a fortress. Towers pierced the leaden sky, crenellations lined the high walls like jagged teeth, and narrow windows stared blankly down like the eyes of a watchful predator. It radiated power, isolation, and an unnerving sense of age-old secrets. Sandra's breath hitched. This was the beast's lair. The rumours suddenly felt terrifyingly plausible.
The carriage rolled to a stop before massive, iron-bound oak doors. No welcoming party stood ready. The air was utterly still, the only sound the nervous stamp of the horses and the distant caw of a crow. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy.
The carriage door swung open. A footman in the same severe dark livery she'd seen yesterday stood impassively. Arthur scrambled out first, adjusting his coat with nervous energy. Sandra followed, her legs trembling slightly as her boots touched the gravel. The sheer scale of the castle up close was overwhelming, the stone walls radiating a palpable chill.
The great doors groaned open inwards, revealing not a bustling entrance hall, but a cavernous, dimly lit space. Vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow. Cold flagstones stretched away. Tapestries depicting grim hunting scenes adorned the walls, their colors faded and somber. The air smelled of damp stone, old wood, and something else… a faint, metallic tang she couldn't identify.
A woman materialized from the shadows near the foot of a grand, sweeping staircase. She was tall, thin, dressed in unrelenting black, her silver hair pulled back so severely it stretched the skin of her face. Her eyes, sharp and flinty grey, assessed Sandra with cold detachment.
"Mr. Middleton," she stated, her voice dry and precise. "Miss Middleton. I am Mrs. Thorne, the housekeeper. You are expected. Follow me." She turned without waiting for a response, her footsteps echoing sharply in the vast emptiness.
Arthur cleared his throat. "Mrs. Thorne, a pleasure. My daughter, Sandra—"
"The Master is aware," Mrs. Thorne interrupted, not breaking stride. "Your business is concluded, Mr. Middleton. The carriage will return you to the city."
Arthur blinked, taken aback. "But… the ceremony? The formalities?"
"The Master does not indulge in social formalities. The legalities were handled by proxy. Your presence is no longer required." Mrs. Thorne stopped before a heavy oak door off the main hall. "Miss Middleton, your belongings will be taken to your chambers. This way."
Sandra felt a fresh wave of panic. Her father was being dismissed like a tradesman. He looked momentarily furious, then deflated, the reality of his powerless position crashing down. He turned to Sandra, his expression a mixture of awkwardness and residual fear.
"Well, Sandra… be good. Do as you're told." He patted her arm clumsily. "We'll… we'll be in touch." He practically fled back towards the entrance, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him with a dreadful finality. Sandra was alone. Utterly alone in the monster's castle.
Mrs. Thorne watched Arthur's retreat with icy satisfaction before turning her piercing gaze back to Sandra. "This is the West Parlor. You will wait here until summoned." She opened the door, revealing a smaller, equally gloomy room dominated by a cold fireplace and heavy, dark furniture. "Do not wander. Do not touch anything. The Master values his privacy above all else."
Sandra stepped into the parlor. The air was even colder here. "Summoned? For what?"
"For whatever the Master requires," Mrs. Thorne replied cryptically. "Dinner will be served at seven. In your rooms." She gestured towards a bell pull by the mantelpiece. "Ring if you require immediate assistance. Though I advise against frivolity." With a final, dismissive glance, she withdrew, closing the door firmly behind her. The soft click of the latch sounded like the sealing of a tomb.
Alone in the oppressive silence, Sandra wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. The grandeur of the castle felt like a mockery. It wasn't opulent; it was oppressive. Every shadow seemed to hold a secret, every creak of the ancient structure sounded like a sigh or a warning. She walked slowly towards the large window overlooking the grounds. Rain had started again, sheeting down against the glass, blurring the view of tangled, overgrown gardens and distant, skeletal trees. It felt like the outside world had ceased to exist.
Her eyes drifted around the room, searching for… anything. A clue, a sign of life beyond her own terrified breathing. They snagged on a large, gilt-framed portrait hanging above the cold fireplace.
It was him.
Paul Barton.
Sandra's breath caught. The rumours had spoken of a monster, a brute, a deformed creature. The man in the portrait was none of those things.
He was… arresting. Dark hair, swept back from a high forehead. Strong, aristocratic features – a defined jaw, a straight nose. His eyes, even captured in oil paint, were intense, a startlingly clear grey that seemed to look right through her. He wore formal black, standing stiffly, one hand resting on the head of a large, dark-furred dog that sat at his side, looking equally alert and imposing. He wasn't smiling. His expression was cold, haughty, utterly devoid of warmth. But he was undeniably, shockingly handsome. Not a beast in appearance, but perhaps something far more dangerous: a beautiful predator.
Sandra stared, transfixed and horrified. The disconnect between the rumours and the reality before her was jarring. How could this man, with his sculpted features and piercing gaze, be the same one whispered to have murdered his wives? The fear didn't lessen; it morphed. It became sharper, more complex. The monster wasn't hideous; he was alluring, and that made the danger feel infinitely more insidious.
A sound shattered the silence – the heavy tread of boots on the flagstones outside the parlor door. They stopped right outside. Sandra froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. This was it. The summoning. The meeting.
She heard the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock. Not the handle turning – the *lock*. From the outside.
Panic flared. Was he locking her *in*? The footsteps moved away, fading down the hall. Sandra stood rooted, staring at the locked door, the image of Paul Barton's coldly beautiful face burning in her mind. The silence of Blackwood Castle descended once more, deeper and more terrifying than before. She wasn't just a replacement bride; she was a prisoner in a gilded cage, and the keeper of the keys was a breathtaking enigma shrouded in blood-soaked whispers. The wait had ended, only to plunge her into a deeper, more chilling uncertainty.