006: The Library
936 Words
Let me start by saying one thing—this house is a liar.
The ceilings lie.
The walls lie.
Even the chandeliers probably lie.
The only thing that tells the truth here is the panic button, and even that feels like it’s judging me silently.
So when I found a door behind a rack of designer coats in the far end of my closet—one I swear wasn’t there the day before—I paused.
Then I opened it, like the walking red flag that I am.
Behind it?
A staircase.
A spiraling, velvet-lined staircase with low lights and the smell of old paper.
And you know what they say about rich men with hidden staircases?
No, really—what do they say? Because I’m starting to think I missed that chapter of the girlboss handbook.
It took me five minutes of deep, cautious steps to reach the bottom. At first, I thought it was just storage. But as I turned the corner, my breath caught.
It was a library.
But not the kind I expected.
This wasn’t the sleek, glass-walled, CEO-vibe library from Pinterest. No. This was ancient.
Dust. Warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books that smelled like secrets.
There was even a globe in the corner, the kind you could open up and hide whiskey in. A cracked leather armchair. A reading lamp still on.
And a journal.
Lying open on the desk.
My eyes darted on it and unconsciously reach for it.
His handwriting.
I know what you’re thinking.
Hyacinth, don’t read the man’s private journal.
Well, guess what?
I did.
Because when a man fakes a coma, marries you without consent, and lies about everything except the flavor of your tea—you earn the right to snoop.
Page one wasn’t anything wild.
Just a line in capital letters—“SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHO SHE IS TO ME.”
My fingers went cold.
I flipped.
Page two—“If anything happens to me, make sure she never sees the surveillance footage from the park.”
My lungs forgot how to do their job. I sat down.
Hard.
Park?
Surveillance?
Me?
No. No, no, no. This was crossing into territory I wasn’t emotionally moisturized enough to handle.
I shut the journal.
And immediately opened it again.
Because I’m a nosy little emotionally damaged gremlin.
The entries were scattered. Disorganized. Half-written. But all of them orbiting me like I was the center of a storm I never even knew existed.
There were references to dates I didn’t remember.
Phrases like—“She laughed at the gala, and it felt like safety.”, “The dress was red. She wore it like armor.”, “Don’t let her go this time.”
Every new page made my stomach twist.
Because this wasn’t just paranoia.
This was intentional.
He hadn’t just found me at a bar.
He’d been watching me.
Or worse—waiting for me.
I stood, pacing the edge of the rug like it could ground me.
My head was spinning.
Suddenly, every “coincidence” didn’t feel so random. The raffle at the gala. The room assignment. The peach tea. The fact that his guards knew my name before I ever gave it.
What kind of man plans a marriage before a first kiss?
What kind of man keeps a secret library underneath his house filled with breadcrumbs of obsession?
And why, for the love of all things holy, was my name scribbled in the margins of a page titled “Backups”?
That was when I noticed the second shelf. Locked.
Not with a key.
With a digital pad.
Like a safe.
Or a vault.
I stared at it, heart pounding.
There was no way I was cracking it, not without blowing something up or alerting the panic button to throw me into the void. But I could feel it in my gut—whatever was in that shelf? It wasn’t books.
It was proof.
Of something.
And I was going to find out what.
Do I really know Dark?
Oof! Scrap that—we’re a total stranger that only had a one-night-stand, and now it’s getting creepier than it actually looks like.
On my way back up, I heard footsteps in the hallway above. I froze, peeking through the crack in the closet door.
It was him.
Dark Mathially.
Wearing gray sweatpants—criminally unfair—barefoot, holding a coffee mug, like he didn’t just keep an emotional murder dungeon under his mansion.
I held my breath.
And then—he looked directly at the closet door.
Did he know?
Was he watching?
Had he always known?
My heart thundered as he stood there for three full seconds.
Then he walked away.
And I exhaled like I’d just escaped a hostage negotiation.
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep.
Too many thoughts. Too many pieces that didn’t fit.
So I sat on the floor of the bathroom, back against the tub, hair wrapped in a towel, robe slightly open, and journal in my lap like it was a cursed diary from a Netflix thriller.
I was still reeling from one line in particular…
“If she finds the truth before I’m ready—she’ll run.”
Yeah, Dark.
No kidding.
But the scariest part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to run anymore.
Because whatever was hiding beneath these walls, beneath his eyes, beneath the whole messed-up reality of our… whatever-this-is—it was tied to me.
And I needed to know why.
I needed to know what he wasn’t saying.
Even if it burned.
- Writer
