"The house had been waiting—with its doors unlocked, its secrets intact, and its mouth already open."
The village disappeared behind her like a secret.
Three hours outside London, the motorway had thinned into country roads, then into dirt-worn paths lined with skeletal trees. The sky hung heavy, smeared in ash and grey. It hadn't rained, but the earth was slick, like it had been warned of her arrival in advance.
Rhea Voss turned down the volume of the radio she wasn't listening to and shifted in her seat. She hadn't driven this far into the Cotswolds in over a decade. But the name still echoed like a bloodline in the back of her head — Voss Estate. Hers now.
She parked just beyond the outer gates and stepped out, her black stilettos crunching on gravel, sinking slightly into the softened earth. The wind pressed her silk blouse flat against her torso, exposing her silhouette like a secret. Her perfume — Byredo's "Bibliothèque" — lingered in the air, smoky and expensive. A red velvet scrunchie hung on her wrist, holding nothing back. Her nails were freshly painted a glossy plum, sharp as her stare.
The estate towered before her — not just a house, but a gothic monument of legacy and power. Four stories high. Ivy crept up the stone pillars like veins beneath skin. Arched windows blinked back at her with cold disdain. Gargoyles hunched like old gods on the ledges.
"You okay?" a soft voice asked behind her.
Rhea turned. Evelyn — Evie — stood beside the car, wrapped in a lilac cardigan two sizes too big. Her blonde braid lay perfectly centered over one shoulder, and her glasses slid slightly down the bridge of her nose. She carried a small watering can under one arm and a canvas tote bulging with pots and seeds.
Evie didn't belong in this story. She belonged in a sunny campus greenhouse, not outside a house that looked like it wanted to eat them.
"I'm fine," Rhea said, lying with practiced ease.
Evie smiled and adjusted her cardigan. "Cam sent me a meme this morning. Said this place looks like the kind of house that swallows visitors whole. I told him it's just a house."
"Is it?" Rhea muttered.
The will was clear: stay here for ninety-two days, or lose the inheritance entirely. Their mother's share, the property, the art. All of it. Rhea had almost walked away.
But Evie hadn't.
They passed through the creaking wrought iron gates together.
The front doors opened before Rhea could knock.
An older woman in a charcoal uniform stood just inside. Her name tag read Agnes, and her face looked carved from the same stone as the columns outside. Composed. Unyielding.
"Ms. Voss. Miss Evelyn. Welcome home."
Behind her, two other staff members glided down the corridor like ghosts trained in etiquette. Everything was polished. Perfect. A fire burned faintly in the foyer hearth, and fresh flowers sat in tall antique vases. The air smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax.
"You still keep staff here?" Rhea asked, suspicion sharpened in her tone.
Agnes nodded. "The estate has always run, Miss. Mr. Vale has seen to its upkeep in your absence."
Rhea's stomach tensed.
"Mr. Vale?" she repeated.
"He's not here at the moment. But he's expected."
Lucien Vale. The name dropped into her mind like a stone into a still lake. Her pulse twitched at her wrist.
She said nothing. Just followed.
Agnes led them through a high-ceilinged corridor where every footstep echoed too loudly. The wallpaper had been replaced. The chandeliers gleamed like new-cut crystal. Someone had spent time — a lot of time — restoring this place.
Which meant someone had been watching it. Caring for it. Possibly living in it.
That someone was him.
"The master suite will be prepared for you, Ms. Voss," Agnes said. "Your sister's room is directly opposite. I assumed you'd want to be close."
Rhea didn't answer.
The door to the suite swung open. Light from bay windows flooded in, warm and golden. An emerald velvet duvet crowned the bed. Pale ash-grey walls, brass curtain rods, a lit fireplace, and an antique vanity with an oval mirror that reflected Rhea's figure back at her — tall, regal, but somehow... wary.
Evie's voice called from across the hall. "Rhea, my room has a window seat! I'm going to pot the ferns there. You have to see this!"
Rhea stepped inside and shut the door softly behind her.
The room smelled faintly of something she couldn't place. Not her perfume. Not Evie's floral lotion. Something colder. Masculine.
She stood still for a moment. Let it settle.
Then crossed the room, heels clicking against the oak, and pressed her hand to the wallpaper.
It was warm.
This wasn't what she expected.
And she didn't trust anything that dressed itself up so perfectly.
Not anymore.