The house slept. Only the faint creak of beams and the whisper of wind against the shutters disturbed the silence.
Esteve padded quietly through the darkened corridor, his throat dry. He pushed open the kitchen door, expecting emptiness.
But she was there.
Anne stood by the counter in a pale nightgown, her hair tumbling loose, a half-empty glass of wine in her hand. The lantern light caught the curve of her face, soft and tired.
She looked up, startled, but her surprise melted quickly into something harder to name. "Couldn't sleep?" she asked.
"I was just… thirsty," Esteve said, his voice low.
He poured himself water, but his hand shook as he lifted it. The silence between them pressed in, heavier than the night air.
Anne swirled the wine in her glass. "This house doesn't let me rest," she murmured. "It feels alive… like it's listening."
Esteve's chest tightened. "Maybe it is."
For a moment, neither moved. Then she set her glass down with care, her fingers brushing his as she passed. "Not here," she whispered.
But the glint in her eyes betrayed her words. She led the way to the narrow servants' hallway, pressing against the panel that opened into the secret passage.
Esteve hesitated only a moment before following.
The darkness of the passage swallowed them whole. Dust and cold stone pressed in, but neither cared. Their whispers faded quickly into silence, replaced by the hurried rhythm of their closeness, the reckless urgency that only the forbidden could create.
They did not notice the faint scrape of a shoe at the doorway.
Lucía, one of the younger maids, had risen for her rounds and glimpsed the hidden panel ajar. Curiosity—and dread—drew her nearer. She peered in, just enough to see what unfolded within the shadows.
Her breath caught. Her heart pounded.
She should scream. She should run to Gustavo's chamber and tell him what his son and his bride-to-be were doing. But her hands shook violently as she clutched her apron. She had seen the steel behind Anne's soft smile. Servants who crossed her did not last long.
Lucía turned away, swallowing the terror in her throat. She would keep silent. For her own safety.
Upstairs, the mansion shifted.
In the master bedroom, Gustavo stirred. The bed beside him was cold, Anne's place empty. He sat up, frowning in the moonlight.
"Anne?" he called softly into the darkness. No answer.
He pulled on his robe and stepped into the hall, his heavy footsteps echoing. The mansion loomed around him, every shadow stretching longer, every door a question.
"Anne," he repeated, more sharply now.
His eyes narrowed as he moved toward the servants' corridor. The one that led, if memory served, past the old walls where the secret doors lay hidden.
The night seemed to hold its breath as Gustavo's hand brushed the paneling.
And in the silence, the question burned—
Had he found them?