The morning after their wedding felt like a different world entirely.
Lydia sat alone on the edge of the garden terrace, her silk robe fluttering in the cold wind, the sun barely daring to peek through the mist that had blanketed the estate. The mansion, which had seemed grand and full of possibility the night before, now felt like a silent cathedral too big, too empty, and too still. The roses in the garden were trimmed too perfectly. The silence in the halls too calculated. Everything was curated… controlled.
She wasn't sure if she had slept. The night had passed in a blur of heat, confusion, tenderness, and restraint. Adrian had been gentle, yet a tension crackled under every stroke of his fingers. There was something he held back, something he didn't say. But then again, wasn't she doing the same?
They were strangers. Lovers by duty. Husband and wife in title alone.
But something had shifted between them. Something unspoken had stirred in the dark.
Lydia sighed and touched the ring on her finger. The platinum band was cold, heavier than it looked. Beautiful, but binding. Just like this marriage.
Behind her, the doors to the garden creaked open, and she knew it was him before she even turned.
Adrian.
Always so composed. Always watching.
He stepped forward, dressed in a sharp black suit even this early. The man never had a hair out of place. His presence was like a storm you couldn't hear yet you only felt the pressure change in the air.
"You left our room early," he said quietly, voice smooth but alert.
Lydia didn't look back. "Couldn't sleep."
"I noticed."
Silence. Only the rustling of the trees filled the void between them.
"Are you alright?" he asked, taking a step closer.
She forced a smile, still not meeting his gaze. "I'm fine. Just adjusting."
"To being married?" His tone was unreadable.
"To being here. To… everything."
Another pause. Adrian's jaw ticked, and then he said, "You've changed."
That made her look up.
"Excuse me?"
"You're distant. Guarded," he said. "Different than you were yesterday."
"Yesterday, I wasn't your wife."
There it was. The first stone thrown.
Adrian looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were cold steel, but something softer glimmered beneath the surface confusion? Disappointment?
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
Lydia stood, brushing invisible dust from her robe. "Do you?"
He didn't answer. And that silence said everything.
She started to walk past him, but he caught her wrist gently. "Don't shut me out, Lydia. Not yet."
She met his eyes, her voice soft but sharp. "I'm not shutting you out, Adrian. I'm trying to survive this."
And she pulled away.
Meanwhile, behind the thick walls of the West Wing, shadows began to move.
Cassandra the head maid closed the door quietly behind her and walked into the study where a familiar figure sat, swirling wine in a crystal glass though it was barely midday.
"You were right," she said, bowing her head. "They're already starting to drift."
The figure smiled, calm and patient, eyes gleaming with a venomous light.
"Perfect," came the reply. "Let them fracture. Let their doubt do the work."
The chessboard was set. The pieces were moving. And every step, every silence between Lydia and Adrian, was another victory.
Later that evening, Lydia wandered the halls alone, brushing her fingers along the antique wallpaper. Every corner of the estate held secrets portraits of dead men who stared too long, doors that never seemed to open, and eyes she could feel even when alone.
She didn't trust this place.
And, if she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure if she could trust Adrian either.
But why? He had done nothing wrong yet.
He had been patient. Gentle. Attentive, even. But he was still unreadable. Still haunted. Still... dangerous.
And something inside her some deep, ancient instinct kept whispering: Be careful.
She reached the end of the corridor where one of the older maids was dusting a vase.
"Excuse me," Lydia asked, voice polite. "How long have you worked here?"
The woman, startled, looked up. "Almost twenty years, madam."
"Then you must know Adrian quite well?"
The woman hesitated, eyes flicking toward the shadows. "I know the Lord of the House as much as he allows anyone to."
That sent a chill through Lydia's spine. "I see."
"Some rooms are better left untouched, madam," the woman added in a whisper. "Some questions better left unasked."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
Lydia stood there, pulse racing. She could feel it now more than ever this house was holding its breath. Watching her. Waiting.
Something wasn't right.
And she wasn't sure if the man she married was her shelter… or the storm.