Bound by The Devil on Christmas

Chapter 6: Prisoner in My Own House

- SERAPHINE

We walked past the living room, past the family photos lining the hallway. I tried to look away, but one frame stopped me cold.

Something was off.

The biggest photo—our last Christmas together—was still there. My family was there, beaming, but the woman standing beside my mother—the one wearing my mother’s favorite pearls—I believed it was Marielle. She was smiling as if she belonged there, as if those pearls hadn't been locked in a velvet box Mom never let anyone touch.

My stomach dropped.

Lorraine cleared her throat, her voice cutting through my panic. “Your room is ready, Miss.”

Marielle stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Her touch made my skin crawl. "This house is safe and quiet, Sweetie. No reporters or strangers here—just the people who love you. You need stability right now, not the chaos of the city."

She made stability sound like a reason to keep me locked away.

“And honestly, with your condition…." she added quickly, curving a sad little fake smile on her lips, "it’s better if someone’s always around. What if you wake up at night and don’t recognize where you are? You’d panic. Here, you aren’t alone.”

I nodded slowly, playing the part of the grateful, broken girl. “That... makes sense.”

Aiden exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Good. We’ll take everything one day at a time. No pressure.”

Lorraine bustled past them. “Miss Thatcher needs to rest,” she said. “Doctor’s orders.”

She didn't look at either of them as she spoke.

Aiden’s jaw tightened, but he forced a smile. “Of course. I had the staff prepare your room.”

They led me up a grand staircase. It was a sweeping curve of dark wood, polished to a high gloss.

At the top, Aiden opened the door to the master suite. My parents' room.

“This is your room,” he said.

I looked inside. It was a large room with a king-sized bed covered in those expensive white linens. The windows overlooked the back gardens and swimming pool.

This room used to smell like my mother’s jasmine perfume and my father’s old books. It was where Jamie would race in on Sunday mornings to jump on the bed. Now, it was just an empty, expensive mausoleum.

Every memory of my family felt like a fresh wound.

I find myself on the verge of tears, mourning the fact that I’m the only one left.

This place had been laughter. Sunday breakfasts. Jamie raced down the stairs in socks. Mom hummed off-key while decorating the Christmas tree.

I almost let out a cry, but then I caught myself.

I felt their eyes on me, heavy and waiting. They were watching for a crack, a slip, a sign that I remembered.

Later, Marielle fluttered around the room like a saint in a silk blouse. “I’ve moved a few things in from your apartment,” she said lightly, opening the closet. “Just to make it easier. Your old clothes might feel… off. These will be more comfortable."

I stared at the racks. I’d never seen these dresses in my life. They were sharp, edgy—exactly the kind of wardrobe Marielle liked to wear.

"I don't think I like these," I whispered.

Marielle’s smile tightened for a second. "Oh, sweetie. You will. You just need to grow into them."

The air in the room felt thin. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked, needing to escape.

"Through there," she pointed. "The cabinet is stocked with everything Dr. Ezra prescribed. Lorraine will handle the schedule. Try to get some rest, okay?”

The moment the door clicked shut, my knees gave out. I hit the plush carpet, my fingers digging into the fibres as I sobbed into the floor, hoping the fabric would swallow my noise.

When I finally pulled myself up, I stumbled into the bathroom. I figured it was the only place they wouldn't dare put a camera. My only sanctuary.

After a few minutes, I pushed myself up and stumbled into the bathroom.

I was certain they’d installed surveillance cameras in the bedroom, but I’d bet my life they wouldn’t dare put one in here. The bathroom was my only safe place to fall apart without being watched.

The mirror over the sink was merciless.

I braced my hands on the counter, staring at the stranger in the mirror, and then I saw it. A tiny, black dot tucked behind the gold faucet.

A camera.

Damn it! It was a wrong guess.

My blood ran cold. They were even watching me bleed, even in here.

I looked around wildly, then grabbed a toothbrush from the holder. My hands shook so badly that I almost dropped it twice. I pressed the ends to pry open the medicine cabinet, pushing at the edges.

It popped open.

Inside were rows of pill bottles. All of them had Aiden’s neat handwriting on the labels. Antidepressants. Anti-anxiety. Sedatives. Sleeping pills. But the name on the prescriptions wasn't mine. Every single bottle was prescribed to Marielle Thatcher.

The room spun. So this was the plan. I was Seraphine, but they were going to drug me until I believed I was Marielle. They were going to erase me until I became a puppet in my own skin.

No, I needed to get a grip and remember who I was. A version of me these people wanted—just Marielle Thatcher.

I slammed the cabinet shut.

I opened the bathroom door and walked back into the bedroom.

I tried to lie down, telling myself it was just exhaustion, just the weight of too much happening too fast.

I closed my eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of the house—distant footsteps, doors opening and closing, voices dropping whenever they passed my room.

At some point, sleep dragged me under.

"Miss Thatcher..."

I stirred, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was until the room came into focus.

"Come in," I answered.

The door opened slowly.

Lorraine stood there, like she wasn’t sure she was supposed to cross the threshold.

Her posture was ramrod straight, her hands clasped in front of her.

She walked in and picked up a pill organizer from the nightstand.

“Time for your evening medication, Miss,” she said.

“I already took some at the hospital.”

“These are different,” she said sweetly. “Doctor’s orders.”

She poured them into her palm without showing me the labels.

I hesitated.

“No,” I said. “I can't take it.”

Lorraine’s expression didn’t change. “It’s on your chart.”

She picked up the little paper cup from the nightstand. “Dr. Ezra’s orders are quite specific.”

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

She held the cup out to me. “I would have to inform Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths that you are being noncompliant with your treatment plan.”

Which meant they’d come in here and hold me down. I had no doubt.

Finally, I gave in and took the cup.

Inside were two small white pills and one blue capsule. The sleeping pills and the antidepressant. Probably a mild sedative, too.

Lorraine watched me, her eyes narrowed slightly.

I tipped my head back, feigning the motion of swallowing. I held the pills under my tongue, tasting the bitter taste in my mouth. Then I took the glass of water she offered and gulped it down.

She watched my throat, looking for the telltale swallow.

I held her gaze and drank again.

After a moment, she nodded, satisfied.

Aiden and Marielle appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t worry,” Aiden said. “They help with confusion and anxiety. You want to get better, right?”

Three sets of eyes on me.

Days bled into a hazy nightmare. I was "Miss Thatcher" to the nurse and a "guest" in my own home.

At breakfast, Lorraine would ask, “Miss Thatcher, would you like—”

Marielle would cut in. “She prefers oatmeal now.”

At lunch, Aiden would say, “Sera handles your schedule. It’s easier that way.”

Medication appeared three times a day. If I questioned it, Marielle would sigh with teary eyes.

“I’m just trying to help you,” she’d say. “Why are you pushing me away?”

At night, I’d lie awake, listening to footsteps in the hall, the soft click of my door being checked.

One afternoon, Marielle stood in front of the mirror in my room and stared at me.

“There’s a charity gala tonight,” she said casually. “Wynther Foundation. I’ll represent the family.”

I stared at her reflection. “What about me? Can I go with you?”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not ready yet. We don’t want to overwhelm you.”

I watched her, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. Even here, behind the heavy oak doors of the estate, she wouldn't take the mask off. It covered her from the bridge of her nose to her chin, leaving only her eyes visible.

“Why do you keep wearing that?” I asked, my voice a quiet rasp. “There are no reporters here. No cameras. It’s just us.”

Marielle didn’t turn around. She adjusted the diamond earrings that used to be mine and smoothed the mask's fabric against her cheeks.

“The accident was traumatic for me too, sweetie,” she said quietly. “I have... scarring. I’m not ready for you to see the damage yet. It might trigger your memory in a way the doctors warned us about.”

She turned then, her eyes crinkling at the corners as if she were smiling behind the silk. But her gaze was devoid of warmth. It was cold and analytical.

“Besides,” she whispered, leaning closer until I could smell the sharp, expensive scent of her perfume. “It’s better this way. At least until my face is fully... recovered.

That night, I stood by the upstairs window and watched them return from the Wynther Foundation gala. The driveway was flooded with light, bright enough to cut through the falling snow.

Aiden stepped out first, looking every bit the devoted, noble husband. Then, he reached back and handed Marielle out of the car on his arm, laughing softly.

I leaned my forehead against the cold glass.

She wasn't wearing the mask anymore.

As the driveway lights caught her face full force, my stomach dropped so fast I had to grab the window frame to keep from falling over.

The face wasn't scarred or damaged. It was flawless.

I wasn't just looking at a stranger—I was looking at a ghost of myself. Her face looked like the same old version of mine. Not similar, but it was a terrifying 'same'.

It was the face I had seen in the mirror every morning for twenty-four years. The nose, the curve of the lips, the exact arch of the brow. It was the face that was currently missing from my own head.

I instinctively touched my new, scarred, stranger’s jawline in the dark.

The horror of it finally settled into my bones. They hadn't just given her my name. They had given her my identity, and they had used a surgeon’s knife to make sure I could never claim it back.