The Portrait Room
1785 Words
Willow didn’t sleep after Asher left her on the rooftop.
She tried.
She paced her room. Took a shower. Laid in bed with her eyes shut tight and her arms wrapped around her chest. But sleep never came.
Not after what he said.
> “I haven’t wanted something this badly in a long time. And I shouldn’t want you.”
The words kept echoing, louder each time, as if her mind couldn’t believe he’d actually said them. Or maybe it didn’t want to believe how much she’d wanted to hear them.
By dawn, her thoughts were a mess. Desire tangled with guilt, shame locked hands with curiosity. She shouldn’t want him. He was her stepbrother, even if only in name, and this was the Blackwood estate—nothing here happened without consequence.
But that didn’t stop the hunger pooling in her stomach every time he looked at her.
And God, the way he looked at her.
As if she was fire.
As if he wanted to burn.
---
Breakfast was quiet. Almost normal.
Arthur had already left for the city, and Anna was on the phone with someone from her charity foundation, pacing the drawing room and gesturing dramatically. Willow pushed scrambled eggs around her plate, barely tasting them.
Asher was nowhere to be seen.
She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.
The butler—Bernard—approached as she stood to leave. “Miss Hayes,” he said formally, “your school documents arrived this morning. Mr. Blackwood asked that you review them.”
He handed her a thick envelope with the Blackwood family crest wax-sealed on the back.
Inside were course schedules, school maps, uniform regulations, even a list of expected extracurriculars. Everything had already been selected for her.
“Am I allowed to choose my own classes?” she asked dryly.
Bernard didn’t blink. “The Blackwoods value structure and discipline. All new family members must adhere to the standard academic track.”
She almost laughed. Family. Right.
Willow nodded, but her fingers crumpled the edge of the envelope.
---
By midday, the storm from the previous night had cleared, and golden light streamed through the windows. For the first time, Blackwood Manor didn’t look so grim. Almost beautiful.
Deceptively so.
Willow wandered again, unable to help herself. The mansion was massive—full of unused sitting rooms, ancient staircases, and more locked doors than she could count.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for.
Maybe a distraction.
Maybe a clue to what made this place feel so suffocating.
Eventually, she came upon a hallway she hadn’t seen before.
The door at the end was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
Dust motes danced in the slanted light spilling through stained-glass windows. The room was long, cavernous, with tall ceilings and walls lined with oil paintings—each one more vivid, more intimate than the last.
This wasn’t just any gallery.
This was the Portrait Room.
And judging by the atmosphere, it hadn’t been used in years.
She stepped inside slowly, trailing her fingers along a carved wood table. The eyes in the portraits seemed to follow her—cold, judging, ancient.
They all had the Blackwood features: sharp cheekbones, pale skin, those grey eyes that seemed too clear, too calculating. Men in tailored coats, women in velvet gowns, children dressed like miniature royalty.
One portrait stopped her in her tracks.
A girl—young, maybe sixteen—sat stiffly in a red chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes were wide, almost fearful. And she looked exactly like Willow.
She took a shaky breath and leaned closer.
There was no nameplate. No date.
But something about the painting called to her, deep in her chest, like a long-lost memory just out of reach.
“You found her.”
Willow jumped and spun around.
Asher stood in the doorway, watching her.
His hair was damp, his sweater sleeves pushed to his elbows, and his expression unreadable.
“Who is she?” Willow asked.
He stepped inside, his footsteps slow and deliberate. “Her name was Celeste Blackwood. She died over fifty years ago.”
Willow’s eyes widened. “She looks—she could be my twin.”
“I know.”
She turned back to the portrait. “What happened to her?”
“Depends who you ask,” Asher said. “Official story is she fell from the cliff. But the family never talks about her. Her room was sealed up before I was born. My father once said she was a mistake.”
Willow stared at the girl’s face, her chest tightening. “That’s… horrifying.”
“She wasn’t like the rest,” Asher added, stepping beside her. “She didn’t fit the mold. The Blackwoods are known for control, for perfection. She was—” he paused. “Different. Sensitive. Too honest for her own good.”
Willow swallowed. “And they buried her memory instead of mourning her?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The silence was loud enough.
Willow turned to face him, suddenly needing to ask the question that had been brewing in her since day one.
“What is this place really, Asher?”
He met her eyes, something dangerous flickering in his.
“This house is a kingdom,” he said slowly. “And kingdoms are built on blood.”
A shiver ran down her spine.
---
Later that afternoon, Willow sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, textbooks and course guides spread out around her. She was trying to focus. She needed to focus.
But her mind kept circling back to Celeste.
The resemblance was more than striking. It was haunting.
She glanced toward the mirror—and her reflection felt like someone else’s.
The air in the room felt colder now.
She stood abruptly and walked to the window. Beyond the cliffs, the sea churned as it always did, endless and hungry. Far below, a narrow trail curved down the cliffside. She hadn't seen it before.
There was something down there.
A garden, overgrown and shadowed, barely visible beneath the stone terraces.
A single wrought-iron gate stood in the middle.
It had to be the rose garden Asher had mentioned.
The one where Vivienne—his grandmother—had died.
Willow's breath fogged the glass.
Suddenly, she wanted to see it.
---
It took her nearly an hour to find the back entrance.
The trail was narrow, slick with moss, and wound its way down the cliffside through tangled vines and half-collapsed arches. Birds scattered as she passed. Somewhere in the distance, the sea raged.
The gate creaked open with a sound like a scream.
The garden had once been beautiful—she could still see it in the bones of the place. Stone paths twisted through dead rose bushes, rusted fountains, and broken statues.
She stepped forward carefully.
There were no flowers. Just thorned stems and brittle leaves. And silence. Utter, suffocating silence.
At the center stood a crumbling gazebo.
Inside, something glinted.
A locket.
It lay on the ground beside a faded stone bench.
Willow picked it up slowly.
It was gold, simple, and when she opened it—her breath caught.
Inside was a black-and-white photograph.
Celeste.
And beside her… a man.
Older. Dark-haired. Eyes hidden in shadow.
She stared at it, her heart thudding.
Who was he?
She turned the locket over.
There was an engraving.
Forgive me.
Her fingers trembled.
Suddenly, she wasn’t alone.
A sound behind her—soft, deliberate.
She spun around.
“Asher?”
No answer.
She took a step back, locket still in hand, eyes scanning the trees.
Nothing.
But she knew—knew—she had been watched.
She shoved the locket into her pocket and ran.
---
That night, Willow lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, every nerve in her body on high alert.
She hadn’t told anyone about the garden.
Or the locket.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t—but something in her said to keep it secret. For now.
Just until she figured out what it meant.
Her door creaked.
She sat up.
Asher stood in the doorway, shadows clinging to him like armor.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she whispered.
He stepped inside anyway and closed the door behind him.
“Neither were you.”
She stilled.
“You went to the garden.”
Her throat went dry. “You followed me?”
“I warned you this place is dangerous.”
“I found something,” she whispered.
Asher stepped closer. “What?”
She hesitated, then slowly pulled the locket from beneath her pillow and handed it to him.
He opened it, eyes scanning the photograph.
His expression changed.
Cold. Controlled. Then something darker.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked.
He nodded once. “That’s Elijah Graves.”
“Who is he?”
“He was a Blackwood by blood. But not by name.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Asher closed the locket and handed it back. “Elijah was my uncle. My father’s half-brother. He and Celeste were… close. Too close.”
Willow’s stomach twisted. “You mean—?”
“I mean they weren’t allowed to be seen together. And when she died, he disappeared.”
“Do you think he—?”
“No one knows. Or if they do, they’ve kept it buried.”
Willow looked at the locket, then back at Asher. “Why are you telling me this?”
He stepped closer, his voice low.
“Because you’re not just some girl who got dragged into this house. There’s something about you. The way you look like her. The way this place reacts to you.”
“I don’t believe in haunted houses.”
“Neither do I. But I believe in curses.”
They were inches apart now.
She could smell his cologne—woodsy, clean, intoxicating.
“You scare me,” he said again, softer this time. “Because I want you. And I don’t think I can stop.”
Her breath hitched.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered.
And then he kissed her.
Hard, desperate, like he’d been holding it back for years.
She melted into him, hands gripping his shirt, his fingers threading through her hair. Every part of her burned—lips, skin, blood.
She forgot everything.
The rules.
The family.
The danger.
There was only this—them—in the dark.
Until a knock shattered it all.
Arthur’s voice, cold and sharp outside the door:
“Asher. We need to talk. Now.”
- Writer
