Sunlight barely reached the Blackwood Manor. The heavy curtains blocked most of it, leaving Elena's bedroom dim and heavy with shadows. She hadn't slept much — every creak of the old house had kept her awake, her mind replaying the storm, the portrait, the phantom shadow that had passed behind her.
A knock came at the door.
"Elena?" Grace's voice, soft but firm. "It's time for breakfast. Mr. Blackwood expects you."
Elena groaned and dragged herself out of bed. She dressed quickly in the simplest clothes she had — plain slacks and a blouse — anything that didn't scream bride of a billionaire.
When she reached the dining hall, she nearly stopped in her tracks. The room was vast, a cathedral of wealth. A long polished table stretched almost the length of the hall, chandeliers dripping crystals above.
Adrian sat at the head, immaculate in a dark suit even this early. He sipped coffee as if it were wine, his eyes unreadable.
Marcus lounged two chairs away, a newspaper spread before him, his smirk already in place.
"Ah, the bride graces us," Marcus said, folding the paper. "Did you sleep well, sweetheart? Or did the ghosts keep you up?"
Elena bristled but forced herself into the chair across from Adrian. "The only ghost I saw was you."
Marcus laughed. "Sharp tongue. Careful, brother, she might be the first bride who bites back."
Adrian didn't look at either of them. "Eat."
Silver domes were lifted, revealing an array of food Elena could never have afforded in her old life — smoked salmon, fresh berries, croissants, eggs gleaming with butter. But her stomach twisted at the sight.
"Not hungry?" Marcus asked slyly.
"I don't eat with vultures," she muttered.
Marcus leaned back, grinning. "Oh, I definitely like her."
Finally, Adrian's gaze lifted, pinning his brother with a look sharp enough to cut steel. "Leave."
Marcus raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. Don't choke on your silence." With a wink at Elena, he sauntered out.
The room fell quiet except for the faint clink of Adrian's spoon against his cup.
Elena stared at him, frustration boiling. "Is he always like that?"
Adrian's expression didn't change. "Worse."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "This place is a nightmare."
"You agreed to live in it."
"I didn't agree," she shot back. "I was forced."
His jaw tightened. "Semantics."
Her temper flared. "Do you even hear yourself? You're insufferable."
"Yet here you are."
She wanted to scream, but his calm indifference only infuriated her more.
---
Later that morning, Elena wandered the manor's corridors, trying to memorize the endless hallways. She paused before another portrait — this one of a stern man with cold gray eyes eerily similar to Adrian's.
Two maids passed behind her, whispering.
"…another one brought here…"
"…won't last long. None of them do…"
Elena turned sharply, but the women bowed their heads quickly, muttering apologies before scurrying away.
Her heart pounded. She pressed a hand to the wall, trying to steady herself. What did they mean? How many before me?
---
By evening, Elena found herself back in the study. Adrian was there, working silently over documents.
She stood in the doorway, watching him. His shoulders were tense, his face unreadable.
Finally, she asked, "How many women have you brought here before me?"
His pen paused. Slowly, he looked up, eyes like ice.
"Too many," he said softly.
The words chilled her to the bone.
Before she could respond, the lights flickered.
The chandelier swayed gently, though there was no draft.
Elena's breath caught.
Adrian's eyes darkened. "Go to your room. Now."
She hesitated. "What's happening?"
His voice was cold steel. "Now."
The air seemed heavier, the shadows darker. Elena fled, her footsteps echoing down the ha
ll.
When she glanced back, Adrian was still at his desk — but the chandelier above him swayed violently, as if unseen hands tugged at it.