Twenty-four hours after the first whisper, the household woke to a different kind of hush.The phone on Father's desk had not stopped ringing all night. When a message came through, it slid across the room like a blade — Edward Harrington was dead; he had been found in his study alone, collapsed over his papers.
The silence that followed wasn't grief. It was calculation.
Father stood at the window, his hand gripping the edge of the curtain, watching nothing and everything at once.
"He was fine yesterday," he muttered, "perfectly fine."
Mother would've crossed herself, whispered a prayer. But she wasn't here. The thought of her absence ached like a reopened scar.
I sat in the chair opposite him, staring at the untouched breakfast laid between us. "They said it was sudden," I managed. My voice didn't sound like mine.
Father's gaze sharpened. "Sudden," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Men like Edward don't just die suddenly."
Damon was there, standing by the doorway in his usual silence, but I could feel the heat of him — the stillness that meant he was thinking too much. His face betrayed nothing, but his knuckles were pale against the wood of the doorframe.
The room felt like it was shrinking, one breath at a time.
"Could it be—" I hesitated, the question catching in my throat. "An accident?"
Father turned his head, slow and deliberate. "The only accidents that happen to men like Edward," he said, "are the ones that serve someone else's purpose."
The statement dropped heavy between us. Damon didn't flinch, but something in his eyes changed — a flicker, small but there.
The city's upper circle had already begun to spin stories — heart failure, overwork, scandal. Someone claimed he'd been found with a drink still in his hand. Someone else whispered that the police found evidence of a quarrel.
By evening, the whispers had reached Father's ears.He called me into his study and shut the door.
"You'll hear things," he said, sliding a folder aside, "but you will not react. You will not speak to anyone about Edward's visit here."
"Why?" I asked softly.
"Because they'll ask questions," he said. "And questions make a family look guilty."
I stared at him, searching his face for something — regret, fear, anything human. But Father was made of walls and control. His grief was a performance he'd already perfected.
He reached for his phone again, already moving on to his next strategy. I left the study, the sound of ringing following me down the hall like a curse.
That night, I found Damon in the courtyard. The wind was cold, the kind that made the garden's lamps flicker like candlelight. He stood by the fountain, hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense enough to crack.
"You knew," I whispered.
His head turned slightly. "Knew what?"
"That something would happen to him."
He didn't answer. The silence that stretched between us was an answer on its own.
"Damon," I said, stepping closer. "Did you—"
"I told you he wouldn't touch you again." His voice was quiet, but the weight of it cut through the air. "That was the only promise I could keep."
My chest tightened. "You can't—"
"I already did."
I didn't know if I wanted to scream or collapse. The world felt unreal — the house too polished, the night too still. My pulse drummed in my ears.
"You don't understand what this means," I whispered. "If they trace it—"
"They won't." His gaze softened, but not enough. "I made sure of that."
He stepped closer, the warmth of him brushing against my cold skin. "Aria," he said, his voice barely above a breath. "I'd do it again if it meant keeping you safe."
Safe.The word sounded like a cage.
I turned away before he could see the tears.
By morning, the house was alive with rumors again.Someone from the investigation had called — no signs of foul play, they said. Preliminary results pointed to heart failure. No poison, no wounds, no forced entry. The official statement would call it natural.
But the servants had their own story. They said Edward's lips had been discolored. That he'd been found gripping his desk like he'd seen something before he died. That someone had visited him the night before.
Lina found me pacing the hallway and whispered, "They're saying Mr. Sterling's butler saw a man leave before midnight."
My heart stopped. "What man?"
"No one knows," she said. "But the butler said he wore black."
Damon wore black. Always.
I didn't ask more. I couldn't.
Damon killed for me, and now, none of us might be safe.