The next morning starts with noise. I wake to voices outside my room, men talking in low tones that sound like argument disguised as order. I can't make out words, only the rhythm—sharp, fast, impatient.
When I open the door, the hall is empty again. Only Rosa stands at the far end, holding a silver tray.
"Breakfast," she says softly when she sees me. "Eat in your room today."
"Why?"
"There are guests downstairs."
Guests. The word feels wrong in this house. I take the tray from her, but I don't close the door. "Who are they?"
She hesitates. "Business partners."
I know better than to believe that. "The kind of business that needs guards in the hallway?"
Her expression doesn't change, but I can see the truth in her eyes. "Just stay quiet this morning, Arden. It's easier that way."
After she leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the food. I can hear faint laughter downstairs—Dante's voice among others, deeper, calmer. It doesn't sound like the man I've seen these past days. It sounds like someone who wears his control like a mask.
I push the plate away and stand. I tell myself I'll only look, just see who these people are. My heart races anyway.
The staircase creaks as I move down it, slow and careful. From the corner of the landing, I can see part of the dining room. Three men sit around the long table, suits too sharp, smiles too thin. Dante sits at the head, the picture of calm.
A folder lies open in front of him. I recognize the name printed on it from yesterday's files. It's not Liam this time—it's another name I don't know. But the way Dante's hand rests on it makes me realize this is how he keeps his world together. With paper, money, and fear.
One of the men laughs too loudly. "You always win, Moreau. The rest of us should stop trying."
Dante's reply is quiet. "Winning isn't the goal. Staying alive is."
They all laugh again, but he doesn't.
Something shifts in my chest. I suddenly see him not as untouchable but as someone constantly walking a line I can't see.
I step back before anyone looks up. I turn too fast, and my shoulder hits the wall with a dull thud. My breath catches.
The conversation downstairs stops.
Footsteps.
I run. Not far—just to the nearest hallway, slipping behind a pillar until the sound fades. When I look out again, one of the men is standing at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the shadows. Not Dante. One of the others.
He frowns, then turns back toward the dining room.
Only when I hear the door close again do I breathe out.
I wait until everything goes quiet before returning to my room. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it's fear, but there's something else mixed with it—adrenaline, maybe. Curiosity. The dangerous kind.
A few hours later, Rosa comes back. "They've gone," she says. "You can come downstairs now."
I nod and follow her to the library. Dante is there, standing by the window with a glass in his hand. The light from outside cuts across his face, half in shadow.
He doesn't turn when I enter. "You were listening."
It's not a question.
I stop near the door. "I only saw—"
"Enough," he interrupts. "Enough to learn something you shouldn't."
I cross my arms. "If you don't want me to see, stop leaving doors open."
For a moment, I think he might yell. Instead, he sighs and sets the glass down. "You're not a prisoner, Arden, but you are in the middle of something bigger than you understand."
"Then make me understand."
He finally looks at me. "Those men downstairs? They aren't friends. They're wolves pretending to be civilized. I can't let them smell weakness."
"Is that what I am to you? Weakness?"
"No." His voice softens. "You're a reminder."
"Of what?"
"Of what it costs to trust the wrong person."
The words hang between us. I want to ask what he means, but something in his face stops me. His eyes look tired again—tired and angry at himself.
He walks past me, heading for the door. "Stay close to Rosa today. I need to go out."
"Where?"
"Someplace you don't want to be."
He leaves before I can ask more.
The house feels emptier without him. It shouldn't matter, but it does. I spend the afternoon wandering again, drawn to corners I haven't seen before.
One hallway leads to a locked door. It's different from the others—heavy metal, a keypad beside it. I stare at it, wondering what's inside. Maybe another office, or something worse.
Rosa finds me there. "That part of the house is off limits," she says quietly.
"Why?"
"Because it keeps his ghosts."
She doesn't explain, and I don't ask.
That night, I can't stop thinking about what she said. Ghosts. Does she mean people? Memories? I lie awake until the clock strikes midnight. Then I decide I need to see for myself.
I slip out of bed and move down the hall barefoot, every sound amplified in the dark. The house feels alive at night—breathing, listening.
When I reach the locked door, I press my ear against it. Nothing. Then a faint hum, mechanical. A generator? A vault? I don't know.
Before I can turn away, I hear footsteps again. Slow, deliberate.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Dante's voice makes me freeze.
He stands at the end of the hall, no jacket, just a dark shirt. The light from the wall lamps turns his eyes into molten shadows.
I straighten. "I was just—"
"Exploring?" he finishes for me.
"Yes."
He walks closer, not fast, just steady. "That door isn't for you."
"Then what is it for?"
"Protection."
"From what?"
He stops a few feet away. "From the past."
I can't tell if he's warning me or himself.
"Why keep something locked if it hurts you?" I ask.
"Because some pain keeps you sharp."
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels heavier than before, full of everything unsaid.
"You should go back to bed," he says quietly.
"You didn't answer me."
He exhales. "One day, maybe I will."
When he turns to leave, I whisper, "You don't scare me anymore."
He stops but doesn't look back. "Good. Fear keeps you alive. But curiosity gets you killed."
He walks away, and I stay there, staring at the locked door. My heart beats too fast, but not from fear this time. From something else—something I don't want to name.
Back in my room, I watch from the window as he crosses the courtyard below, heading toward the outbuilding near the trees. Lights flicker there for a moment, then vanish.
Whatever he's hiding, it's close.
And I know one thing now: he's not the only one haunted by ghosts.
Because every day in this house, I'm losing a little more of the girl who believed the world outside these walls was safe.