THE WOMAN BEHIND THE MIRROR

CHAPTER ONE IRIS POV The pen felt heavier than it should have. I stared at it for several seconds before looking down at the contract again. My name was already printed neatly at the bottom. Iris Vale. Two words. Two words that were about to change everything. Across the desk, Lucien Blackwood sat perfectly still. His fingers were loosely folded in front of him, his dark eyes fixed on me. He didn't look like a man about to get married. He looked like a man waiting for the results of an experiment. "One year," he said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was nothing warm about it. "If you fulfill the terms of the agreement, your mother's medical expenses will be covered in full. Past, present, and future care." I forced myself to breathe. "And my debt." "Erased." The answer came too quickly. My fingers tightened around the pen. For the past several months, I had watched my life disappear piece by piece. First went the car. Then the jewelry my mother had given me when I graduated nursing school. Then the furniture. Anything that could be sold was sold. Anything that couldn't be sold had already been sacrificed in some other way. I had worked double shifts at the psychiatric ward until my feet hurt so badly that I could barely make it home. There were nights when I fell asleep sitting on the edge of my bed because I didn't have the strength to change clothes. None of it mattered. The bills kept coming. Mama kept getting weaker. The doctors had stopped using comforting words. Three months. Maybe four. That was what they had given me. Three or four months with the woman who had raised me. Three or four months before I had to learn what the world looked like without her in it. Then Lucien Blackwood walked into the hospital. Two weeks ago, he had appeared in the psychiatric ward wearing a perfectly tailored black coat and carrying a leather briefcase that probably cost more than everything I owned. He had asked for me by name. Not the head nurse. Not the administrator. Me. He had waited until my shift ended before making his offer. Marriage. I had almost laughed in his face. Then he told me how much he was willing to pay. I hadn't laughed after that. "Why me," I had asked him that day. He had studied me for several seconds. "You have a quality I require." "Which is." "Resilience." I had thought it was an unusual compliment. Sitting in his study now, surrounded by dark wood and silence, I wasn't so sure. "I need to read the contract," I said. I reached for the papers. His hand moved first. It settled over mine. Not violently. Not even roughly. Just firmly enough to stop me. His skin was cold. "That won't be necessary." I slowly pulled my hand away. "I should read anything before I sign it." "The terms are straightforward." "Then there shouldn't be a problem with me reading them." Something changed in his expression. It was gone so quickly that I almost missed it. Annoyance. Or amusement. Perhaps both. "You will live here," he said. "You will follow the household rules. You will not leave the grounds without permission. You will submit to your scheduled assessments." I looked at him. "Assessments." "Health evaluations." "I'm a psychiatric nurse." "I know." "I can evaluate myself." "Nevertheless." The single word landed between us. I looked back at the contract. There was something wrong with this. I could feel it. I had spent six years working around people who lied because they were afraid, angry, confused, or desperate. I had learned to notice the little things. A hand that moved too quickly. A smile that didn't reach the eyes. A voice that became too calm when someone was hiding something. Lucien Blackwood was hiding something. I just didn't know what. "And if I refuse the assessments." His gaze didn't move from mine. "Then you will be in breach of the agreement." My stomach tightened. Mama's face appeared in my mind. Pale skin. Sunken cheeks. The thin smile she gave me whenever I walked into her hospital room. She always apologized. For the bills. For the pain. For needing me. She had never once been a burden. But I was running out of ways to save her. I looked around the study. The room was beautiful in a way that made me uncomfortable. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered almost every wall. Thousands of books stood behind dark glass, their leather spines worn with age. A fireplace occupied the far wall. It hadn't been used in a long time. There was no family photograph. No flowers. No personal belongings. Nothing that suggested anyone actually lived here. Then my eyes settled on the painting above the fireplace. A woman. Her face was distorted beneath layers of dark paint. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide. She looked as though she were screaming beneath deep water. I looked away. A chill crawled across my shoulders. "The rules," I said. Lucien pushed a single sheet of paper toward me. There were seven of them. Typed. Numbered. Precise. 1. Remain within the estate unless authorized. 2. Do not enter restricted areas. 3. Do not interfere with household staff. 4. Attend all scheduled assessments. 5. Do not access Lucien Blackwood's private research. 6. Do not remove documents or objects from the manor. 7. Maintain confidentiality regarding all matters concerning Blackwood Manor. I read them twice. Then a third time. My eyes stopped on number five. "Private research." Lucien leaned back in his chair. "Everyone has private matters." I looked toward the bookshelves. "And you're a scientist." "Among other things." That answer bothered me more than it should have. I folded the paper. "I want to see my mother." "You may." "Whenever I need to." "With prior arrangement." I frowned. He didn't blink. "She is being transferred to a facility under my medical network." That made me sit straighter. "Your network." "Yes." "Which means you control her treatment." "I control the funding." "That's not what I asked." His eyes narrowed slightly. For the first time, I saw something beneath the calm exterior. Not anger. Something more difficult to read. "Your mother will receive the best care available," he said. "You have my word." I almost smiled. A promise from a man who refused to let me read the contract. Wonderful. "If I sign this, do I get my own room." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Of course." The amusement in his voice made heat rise into my face. "We're not savages, Miss Vale." I didn't like the way he said my name. As if he had been saying it long before we met. I looked back at the contract. "What exactly do you get out of this." Lucien went quiet. The room seemed to become colder. Outside, the wind moved against the windows, making the old glass tremble softly. "Companionship," he finally said. I stared at him. Liar. I knew what loneliness looked like. I had spent years sitting beside patients who were terrified of being forgotten. I knew the difference between loneliness and obsession. Lucien wasn't lonely. There was something else in his eyes. Something controlled. Something hungry. But I didn't have the luxury of walking away. Not anymore. I looked down at the pen. Mama. Her hand in mine. Her weak voice telling me not to worry. Her smile when she was in pain. I closed my eyes. One year. I could survive one year. I'd survived worse. I picked up the pen. "One year." Lucien watched me. "One year." I signed. Iris Vale. The ink was blue, but against the cream-colored paper it looked almost black. For several seconds, neither of us spoke. Then Lucien took the contract from me. He folded it carefully. Once. Twice. Then he opened the drawer of his desk and placed it inside. He locked the drawer. The click of the lock sounded louder than it should have. When he looked at me again, something had changed in his eyes. The coldness was still there. But underneath it was something sharper. Something I didn't want to name. "Welcome to Blackwood Manor, Mrs. Blackwood." The title settled over me like a collar. I stood. Lucien buttoned his jacket. "Dinner is at seven." I waited. "Don't be late." Then he walked out. The door closed behind him. I remained where I was. For a while, I simply stared at the desk. At the drawer. At the contract that now contained my signature. I had just sold a year of my life. Maybe more. I didn't know. My hand trembled as I looked down at it. That was the same hand that had held Mama's while she cried. The same hand that had tucked her blanket around her when she was too weak to do it herself. The same hand that had signed away my freedom to keep her alive. "It's just a year," I whispered. The words sounded weak in the empty room. I forced myself to smile. "You've survived worse." I turned toward the window. The glass reflected the room behind me. For a moment, I saw myself standing there. Then something strange happened. Another figure appeared beside me. A woman. Same height. Same face. Same dark hair. She stood so close that her shoulder almost touched mine. My breath caught. I spun around. Nothing. The room was empty. I looked back at the window. Only me. I stared at my reflection until my heartbeat slowed. Exhaustion. That was all. Stress. Lack of sleep. Fear. My mind was playing tricks on me. I turned away from the window and walked toward the door. My footsteps echoed through the hallway. The manor was too quiet. Not peaceful. Quiet in the way hospitals became quiet after midnight. The kind of silence that made you feel like someone was listening. I took a few steps. Then I heard it. A soft creak. I stopped. Somewhere deep inside the manor, a door was closing. Slowly. Carefully. As though someone had just stepped through it. I looked toward the dark corridor. Nothing moved. I told myself to keep walking. So I did. I didn't see the shadow disappear behind the doorway at the end of the hall. And I didn't know that someone had been watching me since the moment I signed my name.