The silence after Margaret's departure was unsettling. For a long moment, nothing moved, then soft footsteps began to echo faintly down the corridor. Celeste's body tensed, she turned toward the door just as it opened.
An older woman stood there.
She was tall, perhaps in her fifties, with hair drawn tightly into a silver knot at the base of her neck. Her black dress was unadorned, and a ring of keys glinted faintly at her waist when she moved.
"I am Clarke," she said. "The housekeeper here."
Celeste's lips parted, but no words came out. The sound of another voice after so many hours of silence felt almost intrusive.
The woman's gaze swept briefly around the room, as if assessing the state of both the space and occupant, before she gave a small, decisive nod.
"This way, please, Mrs. Blackwell."
The title felt odd in Celeste's ears, she hesitated.
Mrs. Blackwell.
It felt foreign, like a coat she hadn't chosen to wear. But she rose all the same. Anything was better than the confinement of these four walls.
She followed the older woman, her footsteps were firm but soundless, and Celeste had to quicken her pace to keep up. For the first time since arriving, she was moving, but the relief of it only made questions pile up.
Why had no one come before now? Why had her calls gone unanswered? And why had the door remained locked? By whose order?
Celeste trailed a few paces behind Mrs. Clarke, her thoughts slipping loose from the rhythm of their steps.
A wonderful opportunity... he's wealthy, he asked for you specifically.
Marianne's voice lingered in her head. At that time, Celeste had wanted so badly to believe it. To believe that someone… anyone, might have looked at her and seen something worth choosing.
It hadn't made sense, of course. Men like that… men with estates, with names that made others whisper, didn't send for girls like her. But when Marianne had smiled that day, her tone suddenly tender, her hand brushing Celeste's cheek like a mother's...
It had felt real.
For a girl who'd spent most of her life on the edges of things, the extra plate at the table, the quiet shadow in family photographs, that warmth had been blinding. So when she was asked to sign, Celeste had only thought of finally belonging somewhere.
Only now, walking through these dim corridors did the weight of that signature pressed heavy on her chest. Because what had seemed like a gift had become a sentence. She was Mrs. Blackwell now — wife to the man people called the Mad Heir. Anyone hearing her story would think her a fool.
And maybe she was.
The next moment, a sudden thud echoed through the hall, as though something heavy struck the floor. The noise sounded through the still air, before settling into a silence that felt unnatural. Mrs. Clarke stopped mid-step. Her head turned slightly, though her expression didn't change.
Celeste's breath hitched. "What was—"
A scream cut through the rest of her sentence. High, sharp, and abruptly choked off. It was a sound of fear, the kind that didn't belong in any civilized place. Celeste's hands clenched, nails biting into her palm.
A door slammed above them, followed by hurried steps. Servants appeared, their faces pale and strained. They moved quickly, whispering amongst themselves.
Mrs. Clarke stepped forward. "What's happened?" She demanded.
The servants halted at the sound of her voice, four of them all flushed and trembling, their eyes were wide, as if they'd seen something unspeakable. One of them found their voice first.
"He's loose!" he gasped, his breath breaking between words. "We were told— upon the mistress's visit— we were supposed to put him to sleep, since Mr. Harlow wasn't around, but he—he broke his chain—"
Mrs. Clarke's expression didn't change, but color drained slightly from her face. "What do you mean broke his chain?"
"He realized what we were doing," the male servant went on. "— and then —" He made a helpless gesture, his hands trembling. "We ran, but Clara—Clara's still in there—"
A low murmur spread among the other servants, fragments of prayers. Celeste barely heard any of it. Her mind caught on a single word, echoing, until it blurred out everything else.
Chain?
Chains were for animals. For prisoners.
Mrs. Clarke's calm voice cut through the fear in the air, but Celeste was somewhere else entirely. The word replayed in her mind, again and again.
Chains.
Who would they need to chain?
And why had they told her that this place was to be her home?
Celeste swallowed hard, she wanted to speak, to ask what was happening but the words wouldn't come out.
Were they trying to frighten her? Some kind of initiation into life at the Blackwells estate? Her gaze moved between the servants and their trembling hands.
No. It wasn't a performance. The fear was real.
"What kind of house needs chains?" She whispered.
She tried to steady her breathing. Perhaps they were talking about an animal. A guard dog, or maybe something large and half wild that had broken loose. But the servant hadn't said it, but instead a, he.
He broke his chain.
And there was only one he in this house.
Her stomach twisted sharply.
Not an animal. Him.
Celeste found herself wishing it had been a beast, something with claws, sharp teeth, and an honest hunger. Because at least she could understand that.
But a man in chains?
A man she had been told was her husband?
The thought left her empty.
"Miss—Mrs. Blackwell!"
Mrs. Clarke's sharp voice cut through Celeste's panic. She blinked, startled, as if pulled from a dream. Only then did she realize she'd been standing frozen in the corridor, eyes wide and lips parted wordlessly. All around her, the servants were moving again, scattering like frightened birds.
Mrs. Clarke's tone softened only slightly when she spoke again. "Go with Anna."
Celeste followed her gaze to one of the maids who stood half-hidden behind another servant.
"She'll take you to your room to settle down," Mrs. Clarke added.
The word 'settle' sounded wrong.
Settle? After hearing that something... someone dangerous was loose within these walls? How could anyone settle in a house that kept its husband in chains?
Celeste wanted to ask what was happening, to demand answers, but Mrs. Clarke had already turned away, her posture as composed as if nothing at all were amiss.
"Keep the doors locked until Mr. Harlow returns." She ordered. "You know the master doesn't fancy newcomers."
Anna's hand hovered near Celeste's arm. "Please, ma'am," she urged, glancing around nervously as if she expected someone to appear.
Celeste nodded numbly and took a step, though her legs felt as though they no longer belonged to her.
The mood in the hall suddenly changed. The servants froze, and every sound fell quiet. Someone near the far end of the corridor whispered, trembling, "He's here."
Celeste's body tensed. He's here? Who's here?
"Master Aiden," she heard the housekeeper plead carefully, "please go back to your room."
The echo of footsteps answered her. Slow and heavy. Each one seemed to sink into the floor, not hurried or wild, but measured and human in their composure. The sound grew closer, steady as a heartbeat.
Mrs. Clarke stepped forward, placing herself between Celeste and whatever was coming."Master Aiden, please don't go that way," she called.
Celeste heard the pleas of the housekeeper, joined by the fearful murmurs of the servants. She couldn't help herself, she had to turn. How else could she know the kind of danger behind her, or how fast she should run? She turned slowly, ignoring the small pull of Anna's hand on her arm.
The far end of the hallway, half-swallowed by shadow, seemed to shift. For an instant, she thought it a trick of the light, but then a figure emerged, as though the dark itself had been wearing him all along.
Then a chuckle echoed through the hallway. It sounded demonic... evil. Celeste wanted to laugh at her own thoughts, but nothing was funny, because it was real. Just the sound alone made her weak knees weaker.
Anna panicked, pushing Celeste away. "Run!" she cried, eyes wide.
Run?
Celeste echoed the word silently.
Yes — run. She should run.
But she was too late. Sparing one last glance at what she was supposed to flee from, she froze on the spot.
There he stood, only a few steps away.
A beast? A human? A monster?
Celeste wasn't sure. But one thing she knew was that he was — The Mad Heir.