Corrupted Innocence

The Altar of Ghosts

The morning on the island brought no relief, no sense of renewal. The storm had passed during the night, but it had left behind a thick, suffocating grey fog that clung to the jagged cliffs like a damp shroud. The Atlantic was no longer roaring; it was a rhythmic, heavy thud against the rocks, sounding like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant trapped beneath the waves.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom, watching the mist swirl. My body felt heavy, almost leaden. Every movement reminded me of the library ladder the heat of Damien’s mouth, the way I had screamed his name into the rafters, and the cold, clinical way he had walked away once he had proven his dominance. I was trapped in a cycle of wanting a man who used pleasure as a weapon of war. My own skin felt like it didn't belong to me; it belonged to the man who had branded it with his touch.

I finally forced myself to go downstairs. The dining room was a glass box of a room that made me feel like I was floating in the mist. I picked at a plate of eggs I couldn't taste, the silver fork feeling unnaturally heavy in my hand. Damien sat at the head of the table, dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks that made him blend into the shadows. He was scrolling through a tablet, the blue light reflecting in his eyes, making him look more machine than man. He hadn't even looked up when I entered.

"We have a guest," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

I froze, my fork clattering against the china with a sharp ping. "I thought you said there were no distractions here. No press, no assistants. You said this was a sanctuary."

"This isn't a distraction. This is an audit," he replied, finally looking up. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there yesterday. "The Blackthorne Board of Directors doesn't like it when I disappear with a 'Consultant' right before a major merger. They’ve sent someone to verify that my assets are secure and that my judgment hasn't been clouded."

"Is that what I am? An asset?" I asked, my voice rising. "A line item on a balance sheet?"

"On paper, Evelyn, you are a liability. A girl from a bankrupt farm with a family name that carries more debt than honour. I’m the one making you an asset. I’m the one giving you value."

Before I could retort, the front door echoed with a heavy, rhythmic thud. A woman stepped into the light of the foyer, and the temperature in the house seemed to drop ten degrees. She wasn't like Isabella; there was no thirst for attention in her gaze, no desperation. She was older, perhaps in her late thirties, with silver-blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. Her eyes were the colour of a frozen lake, devoid of warmth or empathy.

"Damien," she said, her voice melodic but sharp enough to draw blood. "You look tired. Domesticity doesn't suit the Blackthorne line. It makes you soft, and soft things are easily crushed."

Damien stood, a rare sign of respect or perhaps extreme caution. Eleanor. I wasn't expecting the Council to send a senior auditor so soon.

The Council is concerned about the Rosewood merger," she said, her gaze finally sliding to me. She didn't look at me with jealousy she looked at me like a scientist examining a bacteria under a microscope. "So, this is the girl. The one who caused the stir at the Gala. The girl from the mud who thinks she can sit at a Blackthorne table.

Evelyn Rosewood, Damien introduced, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. His grip was tight, a silent warning to stay still. Evelyn, this is Eleanor Vance. She manages the Blackthorne family’s private interests. All of them.

Eleanor walked toward me, her heels clicking with terrifying precision on the stone floor. She stopped just a foot away, her scent something like cold lilies and old paper filling my nose. "She smells like oil paint and desperation. A volatile combination, Damien. Have you forgotten what happened the last time you brought a 'muse' into a sacred space? Have you forgotten the blood on the floor?"

The air in the room vanished. Damien’s fingers dug into my collarbone. "That was a long time ago, Eleanor. The circumstances were entirely different. I am in control."

The circumstances are always the same when a Blackthorne man falls for a pretty face with a broken heart, Eleanor said, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for us. She looked me in the eye, and for a second, I saw a flash of something like pity, buried deep beneath the ice. "Tell me, Evelyn, do you know why the locals call this island 'The Altar'?

I shook my head, my throat too tight to speak.

"Because this is where the Blackthorne men bring the things they intend to sacrifice to their ambition," she said, a cruel, thin smile touching her lips. "Don't get too comfortable in his bed, child. The sheets here are always cold by morning, and the ghosts don't like company. They tend to reach out and pull you into the dark with them."

She turned back to Damien, dismissing me as if I were a piece of furniture. "We need to discuss the Sterling injunction and the offshore accounts. Privately. Send the girl to the studio. She’s cluttering the room."

Go, Evelyn, Damien said. He didn't look at me. He was already focusing on Eleanor, the two of them speaking a language of numbers and power that I didn't understand.

I didn't go to the studio. I couldn't. I felt like I was suffocating in the glass house, my lungs burning for air that didn't taste like salt and secrets. I fled toward the back of the villa toward an older wing that seemed to have escaped the modern, cold renovations. The fog was leaking through the vents, making the long hallway feel like an underwater tunnel.

I was looking for a way out, but instead, I found a heavy, velvet-draped door. It wasn't locked. Inside was a small gallery, but it wasn't full of the abstract, expensive art Damien favoured. It was full of old, silver-framed photographs and a single, large portrait covered in a dusty grey cloth.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached out. My fingers brushed the fabric—it felt like funeral silk. I pulled it down.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.

It was a woman. She was standing in a field of lilies, wearing a dress that looked like it was made of starlight. But it was her face that stopped my heart. She looked remarkably like me the same dark, wavy hair, the same wide, expressive eyes, the same slight curve of the jaw. But her smile didn't reach her eyes; she looked like she was waiting for a blow to fall. She looked like a prisoner in a beautiful garden.

At the bottom of the frame, a brass plate was engraved with a single name, Mabel.

"She was my mother’s sister," a voice said from the shadows of the corner.

I spun around, a scream catching in my throat. Julian was standing there, his face pale and shadowed. He looked exhausted, his clothes wrinkled as if he had travelled through the night across the rough Atlantic.

Julian? Damien said you were in Paris! He said you were gone for weeks!"

"He lied," Julian said, stepping into the dim light of the gallery. He looked at the portrait of Mabel with a mixture of grief and ancient anger. "He tried to keep me away, but I have my own ways of tracking the family jet. I couldn't leave you here alone with them. Especially not when Eleanor is on the island. When Eleanor arrives, it means a sacrifice is coming. It means the board is ready to cut out the rot."

"Who is Mabel?" I asked, my voice trembling as I pointed to the woman who wore my face. "Why does she look like me?"

"The woman who broke the Blackthorne family," Julian whispered, stepping closer to me. He didn't try to touch me; he seemed too shaken. "She was an artist, too. Damien’s father brought her here, just like Damien brought you. He called her his muse. He said he would save her from her poverty and give her the world."

Julian looked me in the eye, his honey-brown gaze full of a terrifying clarity. "But he didn't save her. He consumed her. She died in this house, Evelyn. She fell from the very cliffs you were looking at this morning. And the reason Damien is so obsessed with you is that the reason he carries you to bed it’s because to him, you aren't Evelyn Rosewood. You’re a second chance to fix a tragedy he was too young to stop. You’re a ghost he’s trying to bring back to life."

The truth turned to lead in my stomach. I looked at my paint stained hands, the hands Damien had kissed, and realized they weren't mine in his eyes. They were Mabel’s. I wasn't his lover; I was his penance.

Damien isn't saving my farm, I realized, the words feeling like glass in my throat. "He’s recreating a crime."

"Exactly," Julian said, finally reaching out and taking my hand. His grip was firm, urgent. "And Eleanor is here to make sure the ending is the same as last time that the 'asset' is neutralized, so the Blackthorne fortune remains intact. She thinks you're a threat to his focus. We have to leave, Evelyn. Now, before the fog gets too thick for the boat."

I looked at Julian, seeing a chance for freedom. But then, the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of Damien echoed in the hallway. The door creaked open, and the monster stepped into the gallery, his eyes locking onto Julian’s hand holding mine.

Julian," Damien said, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure violence. "I believe I told you that your presence was no longer required in this hemisphere."

The air in the room froze. The battle for my soul had officially begun.