Chapter Four: Ghosts Behind Locked Doors
1121 Words
The storm rolled in just after sunset.
It wasn’t violent—just persistent. Sheets of rain tapped against the towering windows of the Blackwood Estate, the sky outside an endless blur of gray. Inside, the lights glowed warm, but it did little to chase the chill that had settled over Aria’s bones.
It was her fourth day in the house.
Four days since the wedding.
Four days since she’d become Mrs. Damian Blackwood in name, in title, in everything except truth.
And not once had he joined her for dinner again.
She sat alone at the long dining table, sipping at untouched soup that had gone lukewarm. The silence was beginning to gnaw at her in places she hadn’t realized were soft. Even Greta, polite and efficient, kept her distance—hovering near the doorway like a servant trained to never be seen unless summoned.
It was like living inside a museum of ice.
Polished. Expensive.
Lifeless.
That night, Aria couldn’t sleep. Again.
She walked the east corridor barefoot, her silk robe tied loosely around her waist. The sound of the storm was louder here—howling against the glass panels. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, and for a moment, it reminded her of home.
Home.
She barely remembered what that felt like anymore.
She paused outside the library, her hand resting on the cold brass doorknob. But something made her turn the other way, toward the west corridor.
The forbidden wing.
Damian’s warning echoed in her mind—firm, absolute.
“Under no circumstances are you to enter the West Wing.”
But the corridor had always seemed more like a secret than a danger. Something hidden. Something personal.
And for some reason, that made her want to see it even more.
She hesitated at the mouth of the hallway.
Everything about it looked the same—same floors, same walls, same light fixtures—but the air felt heavier. As if the house itself was holding its breath.
She stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
The deeper she went, the more the silence changed. Not emptier, but denser. As though sound itself didn’t dare linger here.
She passed a locked study. Another closed door.
Then finally, she reached a room at the end of the corridor.
It wasn’t locked.
Aria turned the knob slowly.
The hinges creaked.
The room inside was dim. No chandeliers, no gold. Just soft shadows and the scent of lavender and old linen.
Her breath caught.
The room was untouched. Preserved.
Framed photographs lined the fireplace mantel—pictures of a woman with dark hair and warm eyes, holding a boy who looked unmistakably like Damian. There was a grand piano in the corner, its keys yellowed with age, and an old rocking chair by the window.
A half-finished painting sat on an easel.
Aria stepped inside carefully, almost reverently.
This wasn’t just a room.
This was a shrine.
To someone loved.
Someone lost.
She approached the photos, scanning the frames. One in particular drew her attention—Damian, maybe six years old, his arms wrapped around the woman’s neck as she laughed.
His smile was real in that photo. Open. Unburdened.
She turned to the painting on the easel.
It was a portrait—half completed—of the same woman. The strokes were delicate, unfinished. Whoever had started it had stopped abruptly. As if they couldn’t bear to finish it without her.
“Get out.”
The voice was low, ragged, and laced with something unfamiliar.
Pain.
Aria spun around.
Damian stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his coat, his face pale as death. His hair was wet, slicked back, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.
“I—” she started. “I didn’t know. I was just—”
“I told you not to come here.”
He stepped inside slowly, like a predator cornering its prey. But it wasn’t rage on his face.
It was devastation.
“I wasn’t trying to pry,” Aria said, her voice quiet. “I couldn’t sleep. I saw the door was open.”
“It’s never open,” he said through clenched teeth. “It stays locked. Always.”
A beat of silence passed between them.
Then, she understood.
He hadn’t opened it.
Someone else had.
A mistake. A memory. A ghost.
“Who was she?” Aria asked softly, glancing at the photos. “Your mother?”
Damian’s jaw ticked. “Yes.”
“She was beautiful.”
“She was everything,” he said, voice hollow. “Until my father broke her.”
Aria looked at him carefully. “What happened?”
His eyes moved to the painting. He walked to it, gently brushing dust from the canvas.
“She was born into a family of nobodies. Married my father when she was barely older than you. He used her to secure his business, then discarded her when she didn’t fit the image anymore. Locked her in this house. Took away her freedom. Her voice. Her smile.”
He looked at Aria then, and something shattered between them.
“I was ten when she died. She took her own life in this room.”
Aria’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He nodded once, as if accepting the sympathy—but not inviting it.
“I keep the room the same,” he said. “As a reminder.”
She didn’t ask what of.
She didn’t need to.
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “You’re not her, Aria. But don’t mistake this for your home. It never will be.”
And then he was gone.
The next morning, Aria skipped breakfast.
She sat alone in the garden instead, wearing one of the cashmere sweaters Greta had left in her closet. The world outside the estate seemed impossibly far away.
Her thoughts spiraled.
He wasn’t just cold.
He was wounded.
He didn’t just fear love—he feared it would rot him the way it had consumed his mother.
For the first time, Aria didn’t see him as a villain.
She saw a man locked inside his own grief.
Later that afternoon, she received a letter slipped under her door.
Elegant. Crisp. Minimal.
You are to accompany me to a BlackTech function tomorrow evening. Dress accordingly. — D.B.
Not a question.
An order.
Still, she couldn’t help but smile faintly.
At least now, she knew what kind of war they were fighting.
Not love.
Not hate.
But the battle between two hearts too guarded to admit they wanted more.
And somehow, Aria knew—whatever this contract had started as…
It wouldn’t end the way either of them expected.
- Writer
