CHAPTER FIVE:NEW HOME
713 Words
The black car pulled away in silence, its tires crunching over gravel, leaving Aurelia alone at the foot of the mountain-sized mansion.
No—castle.
The building in front of her was not a house. It was the kind of sprawling, ageless fortress that belonged in the pages of gothic novels or cursed fairy tales. Dozens of windows stared down at her like glass eyes, and towers rose into the sky, their tips vanishing into the clouds. The air smelled like roses and rain—and something older, something metallic and wild beneath the perfume of wealth.
Aurelia clutched her small suitcase tighter. This wasn’t a home.
It was a statement.
A message.
You belong to someone now.
Two double doors—black wood carved with patterns she didn’t recognize—swung open before she could knock. A line of maids stood waiting in identical uniforms: black dresses, lace aprons, white gloves. They bowed in perfect unison, as if rehearsed.
“Welcome, Miss Monroe,” the lead maid said with a slight smile. “We have been expecting you.”
Aurelia stepped inside.
The castle swallowed her whole.
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Inside, the air shimmered with wealth.
The grand foyer stretched skyward, capped with a stained-glass dome depicting a red moon and curling shadows. A sweeping staircase curved in both directions, flanked by statues of angels with closed eyes. The floors were dark marble, polished until they reflected the chandeliers that hung above like frozen galaxies.
She felt tiny. A doll dropped into a diorama of opulence.
“This way, please,” the maid said, turning with practiced grace.
Aurelia followed, each footstep echoing louder than the last.
They passed room after room—some filled with ancient furniture, others gleaming with gold accents and velvet drapery. At one point, they passed a glass corridor that looked out onto a courtyard of moonflowers and midnight-colored roses. It didn’t feel real.
Nothing did.
She wasn’t given a tour. There were no explanations. Just silence and a sense that every corner of this castle had been curated to remind her she didn’t belong.
Eventually, they stopped before a tall set of double doors.
“This is your wing,” the maid said. “Your personal staff will attend to your needs. Dinner will be served at seven. Should you wish to explore the grounds, please remain within the inner gardens. Certain parts of the estate are… restricted.”
Aurelia frowned. “Restricted by who? The man I’m supposed to marry?”
The maid’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes flickered. “You will be informed when he is ready to meet you. Until then, please make yourself comfortable.”
And with that, she bowed again and disappeared down the hall.
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Her chambers were a dream—and a prison.
The bedroom alone was larger than her old apartment. High ceilings, massive fireplace, velvet canopy bed draped in black and crimson silk. There was a walk-in closet that already held gowns, shoes, and jewels that could pay off her father’s debts tenfold.
The bathroom was carved from marble and obsidian. The tub could fit five people. The water ran hot with a single touch.
Everything was designed for luxury. For indulgence. For control.
Aurelia sat on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap.
The silence was oppressive.
It wasn’t like her father’s house, where the quiet was born of cold indifference. No, this was different. This was… watching. Listening. Breathing.
She didn’t know why, but she felt like she wasn’t alone.
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Later, when she wandered the halls alone, she found paintings of people who didn’t look quite human. A man in one portrait had eyes too silver, too bright. A woman’s smile in another seemed to follow her.
None of them bore names.
Some doors were locked. Others were left slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of rooms with arcane symbols carved into the floors, or glass cabinets filled with preserved insects and ancient books.
The farther she walked, the colder it became.
When she returned to her room, a dress had been laid out on the bed. Deep red. Off-the-shoulder. Embroidered with black vines and subtle gemstones that glinted like drops of blood.
No note.
No instructions.
Just an expectation.
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- Writer
