I took the servants' stairs because I couldn't bear to walk past all those people again. Past all those faces that had seen me get slapped twice and done nothing. Past those faces that believed I was the monster in this story.
My cheeks still burned. My throat was tight with rage and humiliation. Of course. The problem was always Anastasia. Infuriating, fucking Anastasia.
The east wing was silent when I reached it. Dark. This part of the house was barely used, just storage rooms and my bedroom, tucked away where I couldn't bother anyone.
Where I couldn't ruin Vivienne's perfect life just by breathing the same air.
I slammed my bedroom door shut and stood there in the darkness, chest heaving, hands shaking with fury. The injustice of it all crashed over me in waves. Christopher's baby. Vivienne's triumph. Mother's slaps. The whispers. Fuck my life. Ugh.
I couldn't stay there. I couldn't just sit in that room and let them win.
I needed water. Or air. Or something to stop me from screaming.
I wrenched open my door and headed back out, taking the long way through the main house because I didn't trust myself not to go downstairs and tell them all exactly what I thought of them.
The corridor was dimly lit, quiet. Everyone was still at the party, probably fussing over poor, pregnant Vivienne.
I was passing the main offices, the library, the formal sitting room, Father's study, when I noticed something wrong.
Father's study door was open.
I stopped, my heart suddenly pounding. That door was never open. Father kept it locked with a keypad code even when he was inside. He was obsessive about it, paranoid about his privacy.
And right then, he was downstairs with the guests.
So why was his study door standing wide open, light spilling into the dark hallway?
I should have kept walking. Locked myself in my room like Mother had ordered. Put on headphones and tried to forget that nightmare of a night.
But I didn't.
For some cursed reason, I moved toward the study.
The door was already ajar. I pushed it open slowly, and it swung silently on well-oiled hinges. Father's study looked exactly like it always did, massive mahogany desk, leather chairs, walls lined with books he'd never read and framed photos of him with senators and CEOs.
And a man in black tactical gear rifling through the desk drawers.
My breath caught in my throat.
He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that strained against the black fabric of his gear. Black gloves. A black mask covering everything except dark, intense eyes.
Eyes that snapped to mine the instant I stepped inside.
We stared at each other.
Run, my brain screamed. Scream. Do something.
But I was frozen, hand still on the doorknob, pulse hammering in my throat. The intruder straightened slowly. "You shouldn't be here," he said.
His voice was deep. Dangerous, and it sent shivers down my spine.
"You're robbing us," I managed, which was possibly the stupidest thing I had ever said in my entire life.
"Not exactly." He closed the drawer with a soft click, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "Though I can see why you'd think that."
"Then what are you doing in my father's study?"
Something flickered across his face. Even with the mask obscuring most of his features, I could see it, surprise, maybe. Or amusement.
"Your father?" His voice dropped, went cold in a way that made my skin prickle. "Richard Ashford is not your father."
"What?"
He took a step toward me. I stumbled backward but my shoulders hit the door frame.
"Richard Ashford," he repeated, each word deliberate and sharp, "is not your father."
"You're insane—"
He suddenly moved. One second he was on the other side of the desk, the next he was right in front of me, and there was something silver glinting in his gloved hand.
All of a sudden, sharp, burning pain exploded in my neck.
I gasped, my hands flying to my throat. My fingers came away red.
Blood.
He had stabbed me.
"What—" My voice cracked. The room tilted. "What did you—"
"Sedative," he said, and his voice sounded distant now. Distorted. Like I was hearing him through water. "You'll wake up in a few hours. In your room. You'll think this was a dream."
My legs gave out.
He caught me before I hit the floor, one strong arm around my waist, lowering me with surprising gentleness for someone who had just drugged me. "I'm sorry, Celeste," he murmured, and there was something almost regretful in his tone. "But you needed to know the truth. And this was the only way to plant the seed."
Celeste.
That name.
Why did it sound so familiar?
My vision was going dark at the edges. I tried to fight it, tried to stay conscious, but it was like drowning in ink.
The last thing I saw was his eyes, dark and intense and full of secrets, staring down at me.
Then the darkness swallowed me whole.