I control how you feel
612 Words
The doors opened with a groan, slow and wide.
Clara followed Dorian Ashbourne into the manor; her box clutched tight in her arms. It was the only thing she held on to as if it was her dear life, The moment she stepped over the threshold, she felt it. The cold inside wasn’t like outside cold. It was older. Thicker.
The air tasted like candle wax, dust, and damp stone. She could smell something faint beneath it- flowers long dead or perfume left in the air by someone no longer living.
The door closed behind her with a thud that echoed through the entry hall. The front hall was vast—more like a ballroom than an entrance. A grand spherical staircase climbed up the far wall, its banister carved from dark wood, the steps worn by generations of feet. The floor beneath her was black marble. On the walls: portraits hanged. None smiled. Some didn’t even have faces-just vague shapes in oil, fading to shadows.
There were no servants in sight. No fire. Only the two of them.
Dorian’s footsteps were quiet on the stone as he crossed the hall. He didn’t look back to see if she was following.
“Keep up.”
Clara moved quickly, her shoes whispering against the floor. He led her down a side corridor, narrower and darker. The light faded. The walls grew tighter. The windows disappeared. Her shoulders brushed cold stone.
Still, he said nothing.
He finally stopped in front of a wooden door, deep brown with an iron handle.
He turned to her at last.
“This will be your room.”
She stared at the door, then back at him.
“Meals will be brought to you. You may leave only when I call for you. You will not speak to the staff unless spoken to first. You will not touch what is not yours.”
Clara opened her mouth.
He raised one hand.
“You will not ask questions.”
She shut her mouth again.
“You are to wear only what is provided. Your original clothing will be burned.”
She clutched her box tighter, heart pounding. “Even my—?”
He took one slow step closer.
She stopped speaking.
“Everything you were before this moment,” he said quietly, “is over.”
Her fingers went numb around the box.
“I will decide what you learn, what you do, what you feel, and when you feel it.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t press. But it pulled at her like a thread. “The rules are simple. Do as you are told, and I will care for you. Disobey, and you will be corrected.”
Clara nodded once, quickly. This wasn’t the same , it was way harder than the convent.
He studied her face.
She couldn’t read his.
Then he unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was a simple room. Clean, plain in contrast with the grand mansion. A small bed with black linens. A wooden chair. A basin. A standing wardrobe, closed. No windows. Only a single lamp flickering with orange light.
He didn’t step inside.
“Leave your box by the bed,” he said.
She obeyed.
When she turned back, he was watching her.
He stepped closer than before. She could see the rain still clinging to the edge of his collar. His breath was warmer than the air.
“You’ll be called when I’m ready,” he said.
She nodded.
His eyes moved slowly down her face, her throat, her body.
Then he stepped back.
The door closed.
The lock clicked. And just like that he was gone.
- Writer
