The next morning, the west wing door was open.
Just slightly. A crack.
As if someone forgot.
As if someone wanted her to look.
Emilia stood at the threshold, heart in her throat. The hallway beyond was dim and narrow, like it hadn't seen light—or life—in years. The air smelled different here. Older. Dust, maybe. Or secrets.
She knew she should turn back.
But the thing about forbidden doors is that they always whisper.
And this one was screaming.
She stepped inside.
---
There were four doors in the west wing.
The first was a locked study. She tried the handle. No give.
The second, a guest bedroom — empty. Spotless. Except for the hairbrush on the dresser. Still warm with use.
The third was more peculiar. A nursery.
Not for a baby. For a doll.
The room was painted soft pink. Tiny shoes lined the shelves. But the crib at the center was filled with photographs—of women. All torn in half. All with their eyes scratched out.
Her stomach twisted.
She knew that face.
It was hers.
---
A sound behind her.
Emilia spun.
Damien stood in the doorway, eyes unreadable, arms crossed over a steel-blue shirt.
"I told you not to come here."
"And you really thought I'd listen?"
"You're not like her," he said softly.
"Annabelle?"
"No." His eyes flickered. "The others."
Her mouth dried. "How many?"
Damien didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped into the room, took the photo from the crib, and lit it with a silver lighter.
The flames danced in his eyes.
"She thought she could fix me."
"Could she?"
"No," he said, voice like smoke. "But she almost broke me trying."
---
Later, over whiskey she hadn't asked for, Emilia sat across from him on the velvet couch in the drawing room. The light above them flickered once—then stayed.
"What happened to her?" she asked.
"Annabelle?"
"Don't say she drowned."
Damien swirled his glass. "She left."
"You mean she ran."
He looked up slowly. "Wouldn't you?"
That startled her.
He wasn't the monster they wrote about in tabloids.
He was something worse.
A man who knew he was dangerous.
A man who didn't care.
---
"Why me?" she asked finally.
"Because you said yes."
"To money."
He leaned forward.
"No," he said. "To power."
And there it was.
The real answer.
She hadn't sold her soul.
She'd rented it out.
And now she was tangled in the web of a man with locked doors, burned photographs, and ghosts that didn't sleep.
But neither did she.
Emilia lifted her glass.
"To secrets."
Damien's sm
irk was razor-sharp.
"To lies."
Their glasses clinked.
And somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open again—
all by itself.