IV ELARA'SPOV
1181 Words
The first week in Sebastian's mansion felt like living in a dream. Or a nightmare. I couldn't decide which.
I barely saw my new husband.
He left before dawn every morning. I knew because I'd wake up to the sound of his car pulling away from the house, tires crunching on gravel. By the time I came downstairs for breakfast, he was already gone.
He returned late at night, long after I'd given up waiting and gone to bed. Sometimes I'd hear his footsteps in the hallway, pause outside my door for just a moment, then continue to the east wing where his bedroom was.
We were married, living in the same house, but we were strangers.
The few times we did cross paths were brief and awkward.
Once, I ran into him in the hallway. He was coming from his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He stopped when he saw me.
"Elara." His voice was neutral. Professional.
"Are you settling in well?"
"Yes. Thank you."
His pale gray eyes traveled over my face, lingering on my lips, my neck, my collarbone exposed by my t-shirt. The look made heat spread across my skin.
"Do you need anything?" he asked.
"No. I'm fine."
"Good."
He moved past me, so close I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Masculine. Dangerous.
Then he was gone, disappearing into the east wing.
That was the longest conversation we'd had since the wedding.
The staff was stranger.
Mrs. Chen, the housekeeper, treated me with a mixture of formality and pity. She'd bring fresh towels to my room and look at me like I was a terminal patient she was trying to make comfortable.
"Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Crowe?" she'd ask.
"No, thank you."
She'd nod, that pitying look still in her eyes, and leave.
The guards were worse. There were at least a dozen of them patrolling the grounds at all times. They never spoke to me, but I felt their eyes constantly. Watching. Waiting for me to do something.
Waiting for me to run, maybe.
The chef was the strangest of all. Every meal was my favorite food. Things I hadn't told anyone I liked. Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Chicken parmesan for dinner. Chocolate cake with raspberry filling for dessert.
How did he know?
One morning, I asked Mrs. Chen.
"How does the chef know what I like to eat?"
She looked at me with those pitying eyes. "Mr. Crowe provided him with a list."
"A list of my favorite foods?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How would he even know what I like?"
She didn't answer. Just gave me that look again and left.
It was creepy. All of it. Like Sebastian had been studying me for a long time before we ever met.
But the worst part was the nights.
The house was never truly quiet. During the day, there were normal sounds. Staff moving around. Guards talking outside. The hum of security systems.
But at night, everything changed.
I'd lie in my massive bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Deliberate. They'd stop outside my door and just... wait. Sometimes for minutes. Then they'd move on.
Doors opening and closing somewhere in the house. Voices too low to make out words. Sometimes I thought I heard screaming, but it was so faint I couldn't be sure.
Once, around two in the morning, I woke to the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor above me. Scraping. Thumping. Then silence.
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to pretend I hadn't heard it.
Another night, I was sure I heard breathing outside my door. Not footsteps. Just breathing. Like someone was standing there, listening to me sleep.
I'd gotten up, heart pounding, and pressed my ear to the door.
Silence.
But when I checked in the morning, I found a single rose on the floor outside my room. Deep red. No note. No explanation.
I threw it away and didn't mention it to anyone.
By the end of the week, I was going stir-crazy. I'd explored every room I was allowed to enter. The library with its thousands of books. The art studio Sebastian had built, complete with every supply I could want. The pool that overlooked the ocean.
But there were so many locked doors. So many forbidden places.
The east wing where Sebastian lived. The basement. His office. The security room.
What was he hiding?
On the eighth night, I couldn't sleep. The strange sounds, the isolation, the constant feeling of being watched had built up until I felt like I might scream.
I got out of bed and pulled on a robe. Maybe walking around would help. Tire me out enough to sleep.
I opened my door carefully, checking for guards. The hallway was empty.
I started walking, no real destination in mind. Just moving. The house was dark except for security lights at the ends of hallways.
I passed the library, the dining room, the sitting rooms I'd already explored.
Then I found myself in a part of the house I hadn't been to before. The south wing. Mrs. Chen hadn't specifically said it was off-limits, but she hadn't shown it to me either.
The hallway was darker here. Colder. The windows were covered with heavy curtains instead of the usual floor-to-ceiling glass.
I should have turned around. Should have gone back to bed.
But curiosity pulled me forward.
There was a door at the end of the hallway. Unlike the others, it wasn't locked. The handle turned easily when I tested it.
I pushed it open.
The room beyond was pitch black. I felt along the wall for a light switch and found one.
Dim lights flickered on.
What I saw made my blood turn to ice.
The room was large and empty except for a single chair in the center. Heavy chains hung from the walls, thick metal links that looked like they could hold a person. The floor was concrete, stained dark in places.
Blood.
Old blood that someone had tried to clean but hadn't quite managed to remove.
My hands started shaking. What was this room? What happened here?
I took a step closer, my eyes fixed on the dark stains. There were restraints attached to the chair. Leather straps worn smooth from use.
My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. I needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room and pretend I'd never seen it.
I turned toward the door.
And froze.
Sebastian stood in the doorway.
His shadow stretched across the floor toward me, long and dark in the dim light. He was still wearing his work clothes, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up.
And in his right hand, he held a knife.
The blade caught the light, gleaming silver and sharp. I could see dark stains on it.
Blood.
Our eyes met across the room.
His pale gray eyes were completely emotionless. Cold. Empty.
Like looking into the eyes of a predator.
"What are you doing here?”
- Writer
