The door at the end of the corridor groaned shut behind them, as if the house itself had changed its mind.
Eliana stood still, her breath caught in her throat. Adrien, ever the composed heir, was rattled in a way she hadn't seen before. His hand grazed hers—but whether it was accidental or deliberate, she didn't know. Neither of them moved.
"This house remembers things," he'd said.
Now it felt like the house was whispering.
Without another word, they returned to their separate rooms. The silence between them held too much weight for words.
But Eliana couldn't sleep. Again.
She sat at the edge of the massive bed, still in the silk slip from earlier, a robe draped loosely around her shoulders. The mirror across from her reflected more than just exhaustion—it reflected someone unraveling.
At precisely 3:33 a.m., the lights flickered once more.
And the whispering began.
She stood, holding her breath. The sound wasn't clear. It wasn't even fully audible. Just a trace of something… like a memory speaking from beneath the floorboards.
She crossed the room and pressed her ear to the wall. Nothing. Then—barely perceptible—a tap.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She pulled back, her heart thudding. "No," she whispered. "You're just tired. You're imagining it."
But the taps continued.
She threw on a heavier robe and followed the sound into the hallway. Past portraits. Past the sealed door. Her bare feet made no noise on the carpet. Down the west wing now—older, colder, where the wallpaper curled and the windows seemed smaller.
She stopped at a mirror.
It was ancient, framed in tarnished brass and etched with an unfamiliar crest.
She almost turned away—until she saw it.
The reflection behind her was wrong.
There was a door in the mirror, right where the wall behind her stood solid.
No doorknob. No hinges. No sign it had ever existed.
She spun around. Nothing.
Her hands trembled as she touched the mirror again. Cold.
And then… a crack formed down the middle of the reflection.
⸻
At breakfast, Eliana felt eyes on her before she even entered the dining hall. It wasn't Adrien's gaze that unsettled her—it was his mother's.
Celeste Sinclair sat at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in mourning black again, as if the funeral would never truly end. Her pearls were perfect. Her smile was not.
"Eliana," she said as Eliana approached. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," Eliana replied, keeping her voice even.
Celeste nodded, patting the seat beside her. "Join me."
Adrien said nothing. He remained on the far end, eyes on his coffee, unreadable as ever.
Eliana sat.
Celeste leaned in, too close for comfort. "How are you adjusting to married life?"
"Still adjusting," Eliana said carefully.
Celeste's smile widened. "Yes. It's strange, isn't it? Living in a home that wasn't built for you."
Eliana stiffened. "I'm not here to be comfortable. I'm here because your husband wrote my name in his will."
"And why do you think he did that?" Celeste asked, voice now soft and razor-edged. "Why you, out of all the possible brides for my son?"
Eliana didn't flinch. "I was hoping you'd tell me."
"Oh, darling," Celeste said, reaching to squeeze her hand. "You were chosen because every house needs a ghost."
⸻
Later that day, Adrien found her in the greenhouse—one of the few sunlit places in the estate. The glass walls were fogged, the air thick with jasmine and citrus. He didn't announce himself, but she felt him.
"Your mother threatened me," Eliana said without turning.
"That wasn't a threat," Adrien replied. "That was affection, by her standards."
"She said I was chosen because this house needs a ghost."
"She likes metaphors."
"I don't," Eliana said sharply. "What aren't you telling me, Adrien?"
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "The woman in that portrait—the one who looks like you—her name was Isadora. She was my great-grandfather's first wife. She vanished the night after their wedding. No body. No note. Nothing."
"You think I'm her?" Eliana asked, incredulous.
"No," he said, finally looking at her. "But someone does. And my father… he believed you were somehow connected. He said 'the past always repeats until it's reckoned with.'"
Eliana's spine chilled. "So you brought me here to finish something?"
"No," Adrien said. "I brought you here because my father made it the only way I could survive this family."
He paused, stepped closer.
"But now… now I don't know if marrying you was the trap or the escape."
⸻
That night, she returned to the west wing.
The mirror was still there. But this time, it was different.
The crack down the center had widened. And this time, when she stepped in front of it… her reflection didn't move.
She froze.
The figure in the mirror raised its hand.
Eliana did not.
The reflection smirked. And then—
The mirror shattered.
Behind it: a hidden door.
Eliana reached out, heart thundering.
It opened at her touch.
Darkness.
Stone stairs led downward, vanishing beneath the estate.
And at the base of the stairs, a faint glow.
She should've turned back.
She didn't.