Chapter Three — The Art of Obsession
The fire crackled in the heart of the ancient Greyborne estate, its flames casting long shadows against the high, faded walls. Dorian stood alone in his study, the room a blend of dust and memory, draped in velvet decay and quiet rage. The windows groaned beneath the weight of winter's breath, and frost etched delicate veins across the glass like ghostly veins of time.
He faced a shattered mirror propped against the stone mantle—an heirloom once belonging to his mother, now fractured, much like the boy who had once called this place home. His reflection was a kaleidoscope of splinters: the curl of his lips distorted, the hollow of his eyes multiplied. He looked at himself not with pity, but with purpose.
Love had once softened him.
Now it refined him like fire to steel.
He did not want Evelyn dead. That would be mercy.
He wanted her unraveling.
He wanted her heart to ache with questions, her nights to rot with regret. He wanted her to fall so deeply into the illusion of desire, into the echo of the boy she once loved, that when the mask finally shattered, all that would remain was her own ruin.
She had built her world on lies.
He would teach her how it felt to drown in truth.
He moved to the frost-laced window, slowly tracing her name onto the glass. The cold bit at his fingers, but he barely noticed.
"Make her fall," he whispered. "Make her ache like I did. Make her believe—then leave her with nothing."
His voice was not cruel. It was composed. Clinical. Like a surgeon planning incisions. Or a poet measuring a final, fatal stanza.
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Flashback — Years Ago, Beneath the Moon Garden
The past unfolded in silver.
They had once laid side by side beneath the stars, hidden in the overgrown garden behind Greyborne Manor, before the estate fell into disrepair—when it still felt like a home instead of a mausoleum. The night was perfumed with wisteria and secrets, and the moon shone like a guardian above them, indifferent and eternal.
Evelyn rested her head on his chest, her breath steady, her fingers laced tightly in his. He remembered how small her hands felt in his, and how infinite her smile had seemed under starlight.
"Promise me," she had whispered, voice soft as dusk, "promise me you'll never stop writing about me. Even if I fade. Even if the world forgets."
"You could disappear," he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead, "and I'd still carry every part of you in ink. You're written into me."
She tilted her head, gazing up at him with wonder. "Why do your words always feel like a spell?"
"Because they are," he said, smiling faintly. "But I only ever cast them on you."
He had meant every word.
And she had believed them.
That was before truth curdled in her mouth. Before she smiled while testifying against his family. Before her betrayal carved holes in his soul.
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Present Day — The Return to Ritual
The journal lay open on his mahogany desk, its leather cover worn soft by time and trembling hands. Inside were verses Evelyn once adored—poems written for her, about her, worshipping her like a flame he never thought would burn him.
Dorian ran a gloved finger along a faded line, the ink nearly blurred from age and pain:
"I carved your name beneath my ribs so I'd never forget how it hurt to breathe."
He stared at the words for a long time.
Then he smiled—cold and razor-edged.
He would use her own heart against her.
She once loved the boy who bled onto parchment for her.
Now, she would fall for the man who turned those words into weapons.
This time, his pen would not write for love.
It would write her ruin.
And she would never see it coming.