005: Conservatory Confessions
1173 Words
The next morning, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. without an alarm, which was suspicious enough on its own. Either my anxiety has gone military-grade, or this mansion was slowly rewiring my internal clock.
Still in my satin pajamas and unresolved feelings, I sat on the edge of the absurdly soft bed, staring at the panic button again.
I hadn’t pressed it.
Yet.
But if this house kept serving weird vibes with a side of expensive breakfast spreads, I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t slam it like a game show buzzer.
7:05 a.m. – Conservatory
I’d barely entered the conservatory before the scent of jasmine and betrayal slapped me across the face.
Dark was already seated. As usual.
Reading something on his tablet.
Wearing a suit so sharp it could assassinate a man from across the room.
His expression was unreadable—calm, unreadable, and 13% smug.
I hovered in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re early.”
He didn’t look up. “I live here.”
“Touché.”
I sat across from him, sliding into the seat like a woman trying to figure out if she was being gaslit or legally romanced.
On the table: poached eggs, smoked salmon, croissants—chocolate this time, ugh—and tea.
Peach.
“Seriously?” I frowned. “Are we just committing to the peach aesthetic forever?”
He smirked. “You remember the smell.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It was for me.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my childhood. “Can we talk like adults for once?”
He set the tablet down. Folded his hands with another smug in his face. “Of course.”
“Great,” I said, inhaling deeply. “Why does your mansion have a restricted hallway with medical-grade lighting and a temperature that could store corpses?”
His expression didn’t even twitch, as if he knew I knew.
“I see you’ve been exploring.”
“You left me alone with a panic button and nothing but silence,” I said. “What did you expect me to do? Crochet?”
He sat back, calm as ever, and his baritone voice—deep as ever. “That section of the estate is off-limits for safety reasons.”
“For who?” I shot back. “Me? Or you?”
Silence.
That silence had weight. Heavy, deliberate weight. The kind that made my stomach twist.
I pushed my plate aside. “What’s behind that hallway, Dark?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached forward and picked up my tea cup. Held it to his lips. Sipped.
That was it. My last nerve snapped.
“You don’t get to sip tea at me when I’m clearly unraveling!” I exploded. “You fake a coma, marry me in secret, trap me in a luxury suite like I’m Rapunzel with a spa budget—and then give me cryptic stares every time I ask a basic question?”
“Hyacinth—”
The way he said my name—with that low, slow timbre—was enough to make the air conditioning feel like a suggestion.
“No. I’ve had enough. I want answers. Today. I want to know why I’m really here. Why you picked me. And why your closet has a hidden camera pointing directly at my underwear drawer.”
That made him blink.
Good.
Victory for the drama queen.
He took a slow breath. “You found the camera?”
I stood. “Of course I found the camera. This entire mansion feels like Big Brother meets The Bachelor and I’m the unwilling contestant who didn’t get a damn rose.”
He stood too. Calm. Too calm.
“I can explain.”
“Then do it!” I snapped.
His jaw tensed. Just slightly. The first real crack in his perfect, collected exterior.
“You were never supposed to find it,” he said finally. “The cameras weren’t meant for you.”
I stared at him.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
He stepped around the table, slowly, carefully, like he was approaching a wild animal.
“Hyacinth,” he said, “everything I did—bringing you here, the cameras, the silence—it’s not because I don’t trust you. It’s because I do.”
I scoffed. “You have a very twisted definition of trust.”
He looked at me. Straight into me. “You’re the only person I didn’t monitor.”
Pause.
My arms lowered a little. “What?”
“The estate is under constant surveillance,” he said. “Staff. Guests. Visitors. But I gave orders not to monitor your private suite. Not directly.”
“And the camera?”
“Failsafe,” he admitted. “In case you left. In case something happened.”
My heart pounded. I didn’t know if I believed him, but… there was something in his voice. Something like fear. Not of me.
Of what might happen to me.
“Why?” I asked. “What are you so afraid of?”
He hesitated.
And that hesitation told me everything I needed to know.
Something was going on. Something deeper. Something buried behind layers of secrets, hidden corridors, and peach-scented charm.
“You don’t trust anyone,” I said quietly. “Except me.”
He didn’t confirm it.
He didn’t have to.
Later – Closet Recon
After breakfast—which I angrily ate halfway through because emotional breakdowns burn calories—I returned to the suite with a mission.
Closet. Camera. Clarity.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at my reflection like she had answers.
“You’re not crazy,” I told myself. “You’re just married to a man who faked a coma and accidentally stepped into a spy thriller.”
Cool. Normal.
I opened the closet door and began inspecting every corner like a paranoid detective.
There.
Behind the third shelf. Hidden between the velvet boxes of perfume and the Chanel handbags I would never touch. A small black lens.
Almost invisible.
Except now that I knew where to look… I couldn’t not see it.
I stood there for a full minute, breathing.
Then I smiled.
Because if this was a game—fine.
Two could play.
I pulled a scarf from the drawer. Bright red. Silk. I walked back to the camera, bent slightly forward so it had a great view, and winked.
“Hope you’re enjoying the show,” I said. “But I’m not the clueless little drunk girl you married anymore.”
And then?
I covered the lens.
That Night
No one said anything.
Dinner came and went in awkward silence. Dark didn’t join me. No notes. No guards. Just me, a golden tray, and a weirdly passive-aggressive soufflé that collapsed the second I touched it.
But you know what?
Good.
Let him wonder.
Because something in this house was twisted. Strange. Carefully curated. And if he wasn’t going to give me answers?
I’d find them myself.
- Writer
