The paper was old, the ink faded, and yet every word struck like a blade across her skin.
> My dearest Vivienne,
If you are reading this, then the truth I feared most has reached you. The enemies I fought in silence have grown bold. I leave you not only Rosemoor, but a war cloaked in civility. You must be careful whom you trust—especially Damien Vale.
Love, always,
Your Father.
Vivienne sat motionless in the drawing room, the fire crackling behind her, casting shadows that seemed to listen in. Her father's warning pulsed through her veins like poison. She read the line again: especially Damien Vale.
"Expecting answers from the dead?" Damien's voice came from the doorway, low and uninvited.
She didn't turn. "Do you always sneak up on people like a ghost?"
"I didn't sneak." He stepped inside, his movements slow, deliberate. "This is my home too, remember?"
Vivienne folded the letter with cold precision. "Not anymore."
He watched her carefully, hands in the pockets of his tailored black trousers. The firelight carved sharp lines along his jaw, lit his eyes with a shade of green too vivid to be human.
"What did he say?" he asked.
"Nothing that concerns you."
Damien chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You've grown sharp, Vivienne. I suppose that's good. You'll need it."
"For what?"
"Survival."
She rose slowly. "Are you threatening me?"
"No." He moved closer. "I'm warning you."
Her chin lifted. "The last time you 'warned' me, I found a knife under my pillow and blood on my dress."
He looked at her then, really looked at her, as though he were trying to find pieces of the girl he once knew beneath the armor. "And yet you came back."
"I didn't come back for you."
"No," he said quietly, "you came back for a ghost."
Their eyes locked. The silence between them was thick with everything unspoken—desire, betrayal, grief. Vivienne felt it wrap around her throat like silk, like chains.
She turned away. "Spare me the theatrics. If there's something I need to know, say it. Otherwise, get out of my way."
Damien moved toward the mantle, picking up a small silver locket that lay abandoned there. He studied it a moment before speaking.
"There's a will—one your father never filed. It names a different heir. And it wasn't me."
Vivienne froze. "Who?"
Damien glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You."
Her breath caught.
"That's impossible."
"It's also inconvenient," he murmured. "For some. Especially those who expected Rosemoor to fall into more... obedient hands."
Vivienne narrowed her eyes. "You mean yours?"
"No," he said softly. "I never wanted this place. But others did. And they'd kill to have it."
The fire popped, sending embers into the air.
Vivienne stepped forward. "Then why are you here, Damien? If you don't want the house, the estate, the inheritance—why come back?"
He stared at her, and for a moment, she saw it—the crack in the mask. The shadow of the boy who once held her hand beneath the wisteria trees and whispered poetry into her skin.
"Because," he said finally, voice low, "you're not safe here. And whether you believe it or not, I'm the only one who can protect you."
Vivienne stared at him, heart pounding.
And she wondered—for the first time in ten years—if coming back to Rosemoor had been a fatal mistake.