Episode 2: The Contract Bride
1991 Words
The first rule Isla made for herself was simple.
Do not fall for Damien Ashcroft.
The second was even more important.
Do not trust him.
She repeated both rules as the black sedan carried her away from the cemetery.
Rain streamed down the windows, blurring the world outside into streaks of gray.
Her father’s grave was disappearing behind her.
So was the life she had known.
Isla sat stiffly in the back seat, the marriage contract resting on her lap.
She hadn’t read all of it yet.
She was afraid that if she did, the reality of what she’d agreed to would become impossible to ignore.
She was twenty-four years old.
She had just buried her father.
And she had agreed to marry a man she had met less than an hour ago.
A billionaire.
A stranger.
A man whose family believed her father was a thief.
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
Almost.
Instead, she opened the contract.
The first page was exactly what she expected.
Six-month marriage.
Separate finances.
Public appearances when required.
No interference with each other’s professional affairs.
No expectation of physical intimacy.
At least that part made her breathe easier.
Then she reached the final page.
Her eyes stopped.
Clause 17: During the duration of the agreement, Isla Bennett shall reside at Ashcroft Manor.
She read it twice.
Then a third time.
“No.”
Damien sat across from her.
He hadn’t said a word since they left the cemetery.
Now his eyes lifted from his phone.
“Problem?”
“You didn’t mention that I’d have to live with you.”
“It’s in the contract.”
“You knew I hadn’t read it.”
“I assumed you’d read it before signing.”
“I haven’t signed it.”
“Good.”
His calmness irritated her.
She held up the page.
“I’m not moving into your house.”
“It’s not my house.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Ashcroft Manor belongs to my grandmother.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t intended to.”
Isla stared at him.
He looked completely serious.
“Do you always answer questions like that?”
“Usually.”
“You’re going to be an exhausting husband.”
“You’re going to be a difficult wife.”
She blinked.
For half a second, something almost playful passed between them.
Then it disappeared.
Damien leaned forward.
“The agreement doesn’t work unless you’re at the manor.”
“Why?”
“Because the painting is there.”
Isla’s fingers tightened around the contract.
“What?”
“The missing painting.”
Her heart skipped.
“You have it?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say it’s there?”
“Because I believe it is.”
She studied his face.
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I’m not.”
“Then how do you know?”
Damien looked out the window.
“My father disappeared from the family records twenty-five years ago.”
Isla frowned.
“Your father died?”
“That’s what the family says.”
The answer sent a strange chill through her.
“But you don’t believe them.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because my father left me a message.”
Damien reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.
He opened a photograph.
It showed an old handwritten note.
Isla leaned closer.
The writing was faded, but she could make out the words.
If Adrian Bennett ever comes looking for the painting, don’t stop him.
Her breath caught.
“That’s my father.”
“Yes.”
“When did he write this?”
“Twenty-five years ago.”
Isla looked at Damien.
“Why would my father be looking for your family’s painting?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
She looked back at the photograph.
There was something about the handwriting.
Something familiar.
Her father had kept hundreds of notebooks in his studio.
She had seen that handwriting every day of her life.
But there was something else.
A small symbol beneath the sentence.
Three overlapping circles.
She recognized it.
Her father used the same symbol on restoration documents whenever he believed a painting had been tampered with.
“Where did you get this?”
“My father’s study.”
“Does anyone else know you have it?”
Damien’s expression hardened.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the last person who asked questions about this painting died.”
Silence filled the car.
Isla looked at him.
“Who?”
Damien didn’t answer.
“Damien.”
“My father.”
The words were quiet.
But they landed heavily.
Isla slowly closed the contract.
“So your father died because of the painting?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why are you marrying me?”
His gaze met hers.
“Because your father spent the last months of his life trying to find it.”
Isla’s pulse quickened.
“You think I know where it is?”
“I think you might.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t.”
“Perhaps not consciously.”
“What does that mean?”
Damien didn’t answer.
Instead, he looked through the windshield.
“We’re here.”
⸻
Ashcroft Manor appeared through the rain like something from another century.
It wasn’t merely a house.
It was enormous.
Stone walls climbed toward a dark, pointed roof. Tall windows reflected the stormy sky. Ivy covered parts of the eastern wing, and iron gates surrounded the property.
Isla stared at it.
“You live here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why does that sound like a warning?”
“Because it is.”
The car stopped.
Before Isla could open the door, Damien stepped out.
A man in a dark suit was waiting beneath the entrance.
He looked to be in his late fifties.
Silver hair.
Perfect posture.
Cold eyes.
Damien’s expression changed the moment he saw him.
“Victor.”
The man smiled.
“Damien.”
His gaze moved toward Isla.
It lingered.
Not with curiosity.
With recognition.
Isla noticed immediately.
Victor knew her.
Or at least…
He thought he did.
Victor approached.
“So this is Adrian Bennett’s daughter.”
Isla stiffened.
“You knew my father?”
“I knew of him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Victor smiled politely.
“You have his eyes.”
Something about the statement made Isla uncomfortable.
She looked at Damien.
He was watching Victor carefully.
“Where is Grandmother?” Damien asked.
“Resting.”
“She knows Isla is here?”
“Of course.”
Victor’s gaze returned to her.
“I imagine she will be very pleased.”
“Why?”
Victor’s smile faded.
“Because she has been waiting a long time.”
Isla frowned.
“For what?”
But Victor had already turned away.
“Welcome to Ashcroft Manor.”
He walked inside.
Isla remained where she was.
“Who is he?”
“My uncle.”
“Does he know about the marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about the painting?”
Damien looked at her.
“Everyone in this house knows something about the painting.”
“Except me.”
“That’s why you’re dangerous.”
She stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re supposed to be afraid of.”
⸻
Inside, the manor was even more intimidating.
A chandelier hung above the entrance hall.
Paintings covered the walls.
Old family portraits.
Generations of Ashcrofts staring down at them.
Isla slowed.
Her professional instincts took over.
She examined one of the paintings.
“That’s a nineteenth-century restoration.”
Damien stopped.
“You can tell?”
“The varnish was replaced.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
“How recently?”
“Within the last five years.”
Damien stared at the painting.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“My family says it hasn’t been touched in thirty years.”
Isla turned toward him.
They looked at each other.
Another lie.
Already.
A house full of lies.
She walked toward another painting.
Then another.
Most were old.
But several had signs of recent restoration.
Someone had been working on the paintings.
Quietly.
Without records.
“Who restored these?”
Damien shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Then you have a bigger problem than you realize.”
He stepped closer.
“What?”
“Someone has been altering your family’s artwork.”
Before he could respond, a woman’s voice came from the staircase.
“Not altering.”
Both looked up.
An elderly woman stood there.
Her silver hair was pinned neatly behind her head.
She held a cane but stood straighter than Isla expected.
Her eyes immediately found Isla.
And froze.
The woman gripped the railing.
“My God.”
Damien moved toward her.
“Grandmother?”
But she didn’t look at him.
She looked only at Isla.
Then, in a trembling voice, she whispered:
“Evelyn.”
Isla’s blood ran cold.
“Who is Evelyn?”
The woman’s face went pale.
She took one step backward.
Then another.
“She’s alive.”
Damien frowned.
“Grandmother, what are you talking about?”
The elderly woman looked at him as though she had suddenly realized he was there.
Then her eyes moved back to Isla.
“You brought her home.”
“I’ve never been here before,” Isla said.
The woman shook her head.
“That’s what they told you.”
Damien’s expression darkened.
“Enough.”
But his grandmother didn’t stop.
She stared at Isla with tears in her eyes.
“Your mother promised me she would come back for you.”
Isla stopped breathing.
Her mother’s name had never been spoken in that house.
Not once.
Her mother had died giving birth to her.
At least…
That was what her father had always told her.
“How do you know my mother?”
The old woman opened her mouth.
Before she could answer, Victor appeared at the top of the staircase.
His face had gone completely expressionless.
“Mother.”
The elderly woman looked at him.
Fear flashed across her face.
Then she whispered something so quietly that only Isla heard it.
“Don’t let him find the painting.”
Victor descended the staircase.
“What did you say?”
The woman immediately lowered her head.
“Nothing.”
Victor smiled.
But Isla saw the anger in his eyes.
Damien stepped between them.
“Take Grandmother to her room.”
Victor nodded to a servant.
Two women approached the elderly woman.
As they led her away, she suddenly turned.
Her eyes locked with Isla’s.
And she mouthed four words.
Your father told me everything.
Then she disappeared.
Isla stood frozen.
Damien turned toward her.
“Don’t ask questions yet.”
She stared at him.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Before he could answer, a sharp sound came from somewhere deep inside the manor.
A metallic click.
Then silence.
Isla looked toward the eastern corridor.
“What was that?”
Damien’s face changed.
“Stay here.”
He walked away.
She watched him disappear around the corner.
Then looked at the portraits lining the wall.
One of them caught her attention.
A young woman.
Dark hair.
Pale skin.
A white dress.
Isla stepped closer.
Her heart began pounding.
The woman in the painting wasn’t her.
But the resemblance was undeniable.
The same eyes.
The same lips.
The same small birthmark beneath the left ear.
Isla raised her trembling hand toward the canvas.
At the bottom of the painting was a name.
Evelyn Ashcroft.
Her mother.
A sound escaped Isla’s throat.
She stepped backward.
“No…”
Behind her, someone whispered:
“You shouldn’t have seen that.”
Isla spun around.
Nobody was there.
Then the lights went out.
- Writer
