"The Ring That Shouldn't Return"
By the third morning, the mansion no longer felt like a home; it felt like a breathing thing that watched me from every corner, listening to my footsteps, memorizing my routine.
I told myself it was in my head.
But the letter from the night before sat heavy in my pocket like proof I was wrong.
I hadn't mentioned it to Ethan. There was no point. He wasn't interested in my comfort, only my performance as Mrs. Golf, a mask to wear in public, silent in private.
After breakfast, I was given a new agenda: a charity visit, two interviews, and one dinner appearance. All carefully staged to sell the story of a perfect high-society couple.
As I dressed, I reached for the earrings laid out on the vanity: diamond studs, small but elegant.
And that's when I saw it.
A box, simple and black, was placed neatly beside my jewelry tray. I hadn't seen it the night before.
With stiff fingers, I flipped the lid open.
Inside lay the same engagement ring Ethan had placed on my finger during the cold, rushed wedding ceremony two days earlier.
The ring I had deliberately removed last night and hidden inside a drawer, because no matter how beautiful it was, it felt like a shackle, cutting off circulation.
But here it was out in the open, perfectly polished, sitting as if I'd never taken it off.
I swallowed hard, turning to check the drawer.
Empty.
My skin crawled.
Someone had entered my room.
Again.
By noon, I sat in the backseat of the company's luxury car, staring out at the crowds gathering for Ethan's public donation event. Paparazzi pressed against barricades, flashes already bursting, faces eager to capture the perfect fairy-tale shot.
A security officer opened the door. "Smile, Mrs. Golf. The world's watching."
I stepped out, sliding the ring onto my finger like slipping on a mask.
Ethan stood beside me, his hand casually resting on my waist, his smile practiced and effortless.
"Keep smiling," he whispered through his teeth. "Or they'll smell the cracks."
I smiled.
I let them photograph a story that didn't exist, pose us like lovers, and capture the illusion.
Yet through every blinding flash, my mind stayed locked on the ring. On the silent return of something I had deliberately discarded.
On the warning: this house doesn't forgive strangers.
Later, after hours of fabricated perfection, I returned to my wing, determined to find out who was slipping in and out of my space.
I placed the ring back in the jewelry box, shut the lid, and secured it in the top drawer. Then, I pulled a tiny piece of masking tape across the drawer's edge, barely visible to the eye, but enough to break if opened.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
A small act of defiance in a house that wanted me compliant.
Night fell thicker than before, and I struggled to sleep, lying in the oversized bed, listening to the subtle groans of the old mansion as it settled into darkness.
At 2:11 a.m., a soft creak jolted me upright.
The air felt wrong, colder, heavier.
I wrapped a robe around myself and stepped cautiously across the room.
The drawer sat closed. Unmoved.
But when I knelt, the tape was broken.
My heartbeat thudded painfully in my chest.
With shaky fingers, I pulled the drawer open.
The box was gone.
Before I could react, a whisper curled through the air, so faint I nearly doubted it was real.
"It always returns."
My blood ran cold.
I spun around, scanning the empty room. No shadows. No footsteps. Just an unnatural quiet that pressed against my skin.
I stood and backed toward the door, fingers fumbling for the knob.
Then I saw it.
Perched neatly on my pillow, resting in perfect stillness, was the black box.
The lid was slightly ajar, revealing the ring… waiting.
My knees nearly gave out.
I forced myself forward, my hand trembling as I picked up the box. It was warm, like it had been held, touched, and placed by something alive.
I snapped it shut and stormed out of my room, marching through the corridor barefoot, robe fluttering around my legs.
I didn't knock when I reached Ethan's wing. I slammed the door open.
He sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, files scattered around him, as composed as always.
His eyes lifted, bored, until he noticed the box clutched in my hand.
"Someone keeps entering my room," I said, my voice shaking with fury. "This ring keeps coming back."
Ethan stood slowly, moving toward me, eyes narrowing.
"I removed it, locked it away, and it keeps returning," I continued. "Who's sneaking into my room?"
"Calm down."
"I am calm!" My voice cracked. "Explain this to me."
Ethan's jaw tensed.
He walked past me, closing the door gently before turning back.
"It's the house," he said quietly.
My laugh was sharp and humorless. "Don't feed me ghost stories."
His eyes hardened. "It's not a ghost story. It's family history."
He strode to his safe, unlocking it with a swift code I couldn't catch. From inside, he pulled out an old photograph.
He handed it to me without explanation.
The edges were faded, the colors worn. In it stood a woman, young, strikingly beautiful… wearing the same ring I now wore.
"Who is she?" I asked, throat tight.
"Eleanor Golf," Ethan said, his voice stripped of emotion. "My stepmother. She wore that ring… until the day she disappeared inside this house."
A chill swept over my skin.
"They never found her body," he continued. "Only the ring… placed neatly on her pillow."
Silence crashed between us.
I gripped the box tighter. "Why give me something cursed?"
Ethan's mouth twitched bitterly. "Because every woman who joins this family must carry it. Appearances demand it. The ring is… tradition."
My stomach twisted. "And the warnings? The notes? The whispers?"
Ethan's jaw flexed. "Ignore them."
I stared at him like he was mad. "You think I can ignore this?"
His eyes met mine, steel colliding with defiance.
"You will if you want to survive here."
I left his room, my heart a battlefield of fury and fear.
Back in my room, I shoved the box into the deepest drawer, beneath sweaters I'd never wear, under layers meant to suffocate it.
But sleep didn't come.
Because no matter how far I buried the ring… it wasn't done with me yet.