"Every Door Has a Story"
By the fourth day, I realized something horrifying.
It wasn't just the ring that wouldn't stay buried.
It was the house itself.
It moved around me, not physically, but with presence. With intention. With cold, watchful silence that pressed against my neck even in daylight.
That morning, I dressed without waiting for Ethan's instructions. I chose black—an act of rebellion after yesterday's suffocation. I wasn't interested in color-coded control anymore.
The schedule said "media training," but I decided to explore.
They couldn't monitor every corridor. Not in a place this large.
I slipped out after breakfast, careful footsteps leading me to the East Wing. The one hallway every staff member avoided. The one direction the butler's eyes never wandered to.
The door at the end wasn't locked.
It should have been.
The knob turned easily beneath my fingers, and a long, silent corridor opened before me, thick with dust, lit by windows cloaked in heavy drapes.
I stepped inside, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Every step told me I wasn't supposed to be here.
Photographs lined the walls.
Old, faded. Women in elegant gowns, men in cold, formal suits. All bearing the unmistakable edge of the Golf lineage—sharp cheekbones, proud jaws, and empty eyes.
But it was the final portrait that stopped me.
A woman… standing by the very balcony I'd seen from my bedroom. Dressed in white, her hair pinned high, fingers resting lightly on the very ring now burning on my finger.
Her smile was hollow.
My gaze fell to the plaque beneath it.
Eleanor Golf. 1987-2009.
The year she vanished.
I stepped back, throat tightening, when a soft voice whispered behind me.
"You shouldn't be here."
I spun around.
A woman stood at the end of the corridor. Mid-fifties, stern posture, deep lines carved around her mouth from too many years of silence.
She wasn't the butler. She wasn't one of the young housekeepers who watched me with veiled judgment.
"Who are you?" I asked.
She stepped closer. Her gaze landed on my hand.
"You have it," she said grimly.
"The ring?"
Her lips pressed tight, shoulders stiffening. "It shouldn't have been given to you."
I blinked, nerves spiking. "Why?"
"Because every woman who wore it vanished before their contract ended," she said simply. "Starting with Eleanor."
My throat closed.
"How… how many?"
"Five before you," she said. "Some disappeared. Some were… broken."
My skin turned to ice. "And you stayed?"
She straightened. "I've been here thirty-two years. I've seen things you wouldn't believe. Doors that open without keys. Footsteps where there are no people. Whispers in the attic."
"Why are you telling me this?" I demanded, voice shaking.
"Because you're the first one who dared to ask questions," she said. "The others smiled, stayed quiet, and disappeared."
Her gaze sharpened. "Maybe you won't."
A noise echoed behind us.
Heavy, controlled footsteps.
She flinched, stepped back into the shadows, and vanished into a side passage I hadn't noticed before.
The footsteps drew closer, sharp and familiar.
Ethan.
His face was carved in stone as he approached.
"Curiosity is dangerous in this house," he said, voice low.
"You lied," I snapped, every muscle bristling. "You said this was just a marriage for show."
He stepped into my space, taller, colder, his scent sharp like fresh-cut steel.
"I never said it was safe," he corrected, eyes narrowing. "Do you want out?"
My breath caught. Yes. God, yes.
But his stare pinned me, daring me to answer.
His jaw tightened. "Too late. You signed."
"I didn't sign up to be haunted," I shot back.
His lips curled, something bitter dancing behind his calm. "No one does."
Then softer, almost reluctant, "Stay out of this wing, Chilzy."
I stood my ground, pulse racing. "If you won't tell me the truth, I'll find it myself."
For a moment, something flickered behind his ruthless facade, regret or warning; I couldn't tell.
"You don't want the truth," he said quietly, turning away.
"But it's already finding me," I whispered.
That night, the mansion came alive.
My lamp flickered and died. My window rattled though the night was windless. The ring warmed unnaturally on my finger, and faint footsteps paced beyond my locked door.
And then, the final blow.
A single knock at exactly midnight.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I stood frozen, every part of me screaming not to answer.
But something stronger—curiosity, foolishness, or survival instinct twisted in the wrong direction—forced me forward.
My hand touched the knob.
Silence pressed in.
I opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
No footsteps, no figures… But something was left on the floor.
A photograph.
It was old, cracked at the edges, and black-and-white.
My chest constricted as I turned it over.
A woman I didn't recognise, wearing the same ring… standing by the same balcony… staring into a camera with an expression so hollow it felt carved from sorrow.
But it wasn't her face that stole my breath.
It was the shadow behind her—half-hidden, tall, unmistakably male… Standing too close… face obscured.
In the corner, scrawled in faded ink:
"Every door has a story. Yours has just begun."
My fingers curled around the photograph, the ring tightening like it wanted to fuse with my skin.
The house wasn't just watching me.
It was pulling me in.
And the doors… they were waiting.