Gently, as if handling a fragile antique, he closed the bedroom door. Then, with a weary glance back, he muttered, "And please, for everything holy, have my sheets washed in the morning. And the entire room disinfected. Twice."
Thaddeus chuckled softly and nodded in solemn agreement. "Yes, your highness. Maybe an exorcism too, just in case."
With a final smirk, he headed down the grand staircase, leaving Elias alone with his thoughts.
*****
When Lyra finally opened her eyes, the world around her was softly bathed in the pale, golden light of morning. Her gaze fluttered open to unfamiliar walls—walls that screamed "expensive," "historic," and "please don't touch anything." Slowly, the images around her began to coalesce, but her mind was foggy.
She blinked a few times, trying to piece together how she had ended up in this pristine, oddly silent room, far from the chaos she remembered. But nothing clicked into place. It was like her brain had hit the ultimate "404 error"—memory not found.
Then, like a broken record, the scenes she did remember started to play on repeat. Each one made less and less sense.
First, there was the moment just before everything spiraled: standing in the cramped garage of the house she'd only recently inherited from her aunt. A house that was supposed to be a new chapter, a fresh start, but instead felt more like a mausoleum to forgotten family secrets.
And then… BAM. Out of nowhere, an impossibly handsome man with storm-gray eyes and a knife hovering an inch from her throat.
Her mind jumped again, skipping. Before that surreal encounter, she had been at work, trying (and spectacularly failing) to land a promotion she knew she deserved. Instead, the boss had given the spot to her annoying coworker who flirted just a little too much with the boss.
Which, honestly, was bad enough.
But Lyra wasn't one to wallow in pity. No, she'd decided to drown her sorrows somewhere fun—a strip club.
Only, the universe had other plans.
As she sipped her overly sweet cocktail, trying to ignore the neon lights and the questionable dance moves, she spotted her boyfriend kissing a stripper right in front of her. Yep. That was a special kind of heartbreak cocktail no one warned her about.
The day after, Lyra received news that should have been a miracle—or at least mildly uplifting. Her aunt, who had been missing for twenty years and whom the family had long presumed had run off to join a cult, had been officially declared dead. And apparently, the woman had left her house to Lyra in her will.
At first, Lyra was thrilled. Visions of Pinterest-inspired renovations and cozy fireplaces danced through her head.
But reality, as usual, had other plans.
The house was a disaster. Disaster felt like a cute understatement, actually. It was less "dream home" and more "haunted junkyard with a mortgage." The windows were cracked, the walls whispered in the wind, and she was fairly certain something had moved under the floorboards when she sneezed. The only thing missing was ominous violin music.
She had decided to sleep in the least creepy room and return to her apartment first thing the next morning.
Then there was the mirror.
It was shoved in a dusty corner of the garage, hidden under a tarp. Lyra had pulled it off, expecting to see her own face staring back. But the mirror didn't reflect her at all. It just shimmered. She remembered frowning, reaching out to touch it, and then—
Wham.
Sucked in.
The memory slammed into her. Her eyes widened. "Oh my God!" she gasped, springing to her feet. "I knew that mirror was cursed!"
She began to pace the bedroom floor. What was that thing? Had her aunt been a witch? A sorceress? A really elaborate prankster?
Elias's words echoed in her mind. "This could be magic."
At the time, she'd rolled her eyes. But now… well. Maybe the man with the face of a Greek god had a point.
Determined to confront him—and maybe, just maybe, get some answers—she marched to the door.
Just as her hand touched the doorknob, she froze.
She glanced down.
Still. In. The. Same. Clothes.
"Ugh!" she groaned, and did a full 180 toward the mirror in the room. What she saw nearly made her scream.
Her hair looked like it had made a deal with the devil and then regretted it. Her face was puffy, smudged, and had a very distinct pillow-print from the embroidery on the pillowcase. Was that drool dried on her chin?
"Jesus, I look like roadkill," she muttered, pulling her cheeks down with her fingers.
And to make matters worse, somewhere deep in her traitorous heart, she still wanted Elias to see her and go "wow." Not "yikes."
So yeah, step one: clean face. Step two: tame hair. Step three: figure out what kind of Twilight Zone she had fallen into.
Either way, she was not doing it with a bird crap stain on her face.
Lyra ran her hands through her hair. She tugged, fluffed, twisted, and patted her head into what she hoped was something resembling a human hairstyle. But no matter what angle she tilted her head, the reflection in the mirror screamed "feral raccoon."
"Ugh, what even is this tangle?!" she muttered, yanking out a knot that could probably qualify as a small rodent.
Just then, the door creaked open and a young woman stepped inside, balancing a stack of fresh white towels. Her eyes widened with surprise. "Oh! You are awake. Good morning, my lady."
Lyra blinked. "My… what-now?"
"My lady," the girl repeated, bowing slightly. "I am Beth. I've been assigned as your personal maid."
Lyra straightened. "Wait, personal maid? Assigned?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Stop calling me that! It's weird. I'm not anyone's lady. I mean, I have lady parts—wait, no, that's not what I meant!" She covered her face. "God, I'm spiraling. I haven't even brushed my teeth."