The first full day inside Vale Manor felt like stepping into someone else's life and being told to wear it like it fit. Evelyn woke to the soft chime of a clock somewhere in the house striking eight. Sunlight filtered through the heavy drapes in pale, watery stripes across the floor. Her head still ached from whatever they had used to knock her out, but the fog was lifting. She sat up slowly, testing her body. Bruises bloomed on her wrists where she had fought the men in the alley. Small price.
A silver tray waited on the bedside table. Poached eggs on thick slices of sourdough toast. Fresh berries arranged like jewels. Black coffee in a porcelain cup, steam still rising. A single white rose lay across the linen napkin. No note. No explanation. Just quiet expectation.
She stared at the food until it went cold.
She did not eat.
Instead she got up and tested every inch of the room again, more carefully this time. The windows were locked tight, the glass thick enough to feel like armored plating. The door handle turned but the lock held firm from the outside. The adjoining bathroom was marble and gold fixtures, soft towels folded perfectly, a bottle of expensive shampoo she had never bought. Someone had thought of everything. That made it worse.
When the door finally opened in the late morning, Lucien stood there in a navy suit that looked like it had been pressed five minutes ago. Tie knotted with surgical precision. He looked rested. Calm. She hated how put together he was when she felt like she was coming apart at the seams.
"You did not eat," he observed, glancing at the untouched tray.
"I am not hungry."
"You will need your strength."
She crossed her arms. "For what? Being your pretty little accessory?"
"For surviving the next twelve months." He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The room immediately felt smaller, the air thicker. "Tonight is our first public appearance. Charity auction for cancer research. Very noble cause."
She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Already parading me around like a prize?"
"The sooner we establish the story, the sooner the whispers stop." He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Rows of dresses hung inside, colors and fabrics she would never have chosen for herself. He pulled out an emerald green gown, long and flowing, the kind of dress that cost more than most people's rent. "You will wear this. Hair up. Minimal jewelry. Smile like you mean it."
"And if I do not?"
He turned to face her fully. "Then you learn how persuasive I can be when I need to."
She stepped closer, refusing to let him tower over her unchallenged. "You think you can dress me up and make me play the happy bride?"
"I think you are intelligent enough to understand what happens if you do not."
The space between them crackled with something dangerous.
He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the edge of her jaw. The touch was light. Almost careful. "You have fire," he murmured. "I admire that."
She slapped his hand away hard enough to sting her own palm. "Do not touch me."
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded once, like he was filing the information away. "As you wish. For now."
He left without another word.
The afternoon dragged on in a haze of forced pampering. Mrs. Hargrove arrived with a small team: a hairstylist who spoke very little, a makeup artist who worked with quick efficient strokes, a manicurist who kept her eyes down. They transformed her without asking permission. When the emerald gown finally slipped over her head, it fit like it had been measured on her body. Of course it had.
At seven o'clock sharp, Lucien returned. Black tuxedo. Perfect posture. He looked at her for several long seconds without speaking.
"You are beautiful," he said quietly.
She ignored the compliment. It felt like a trap. "Let us get this over with."
The drive into central London was silent except for the soft hum of the engine and the patter of rain on the roof. When they stepped out of the car at the venue, flashbulbs exploded like gunfire. Lucien offered his arm. She took it, nails digging into the wool of his sleeve hard enough to leave marks.
Inside the ballroom everything was golden light and expensive perfume. Champagne flutes clinked. Laughter floated above the string quartet playing something classical and understated. Heads turned as they entered. Whispers followed like smoke.
Lucien leaned down, lips close to her ear. "Smile, darling."
She bared her teeth in something that might have passed for a smile from a distance.
They moved through the crowd like royalty on display. Hands were shaken. Cheeks kissed. Lucien introduced her again and again with the same smooth words. "My wife, Evelyn Vale."
The name tasted like ash on her tongue.
During a quiet moment near the bar, she leaned in and whispered, "How long do we have to keep this up?"
"One year," he murmured back. "Then you are free."
"Unless you decide I am still useful."
His hand settled on the small of her back. Warm. Possessive. Steady through the silk of the gown. "I keep my word."
She turned to face him. "Do you?"
Their eyes locked. The noise of the room faded for a heartbeat.
Then an older woman approached. Silver hair swept into an elegant chignon. Black dress that screamed old money. Smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Lucien, darling. Introduce me to your lovely bride."
His fingers tightened slightly on Evelyn's waist. "Victoria Lang. Old family friend."
Victoria's gaze slid over Evelyn like she was appraising a piece of art. "Such a whirlwind romance. How convenient."
Evelyn felt the barb land but kept her face neutral.
When Victoria drifted away into the crowd, Lucien's voice was low against her ear. "Careful who you trust here."
"Even you?" she asked.
"Especially me."
The night stretched on. Speeches. Bidding wars on art and jewelry. Applause that sounded rehearsed. By the time they finally left, Evelyn's face ached from holding the smile.
Back at the manor, the silence between them felt heavier than before.
In the upstairs hallway outside her bedroom door, Lucien paused.
"Goodnight, wife."
He started to turn away.
"Wait," she said.
He looked back.
"That scream I heard last night. It was not the wind."
His expression closed like a door slamming shut. "Go to bed, Evelyn."
She took a step closer. "Someone is here. Someone who is trapped. Just like me."
For the first time she saw something real flicker across his face. Pain. Maybe guilt. It was gone in an instant.
"Some doors stay locked," he said quietly. "For good reason."
Then he walked away down the corridor.
Evelyn stood there alone, listening to the house settle around her.
Somewhere deeper in the east wing, the sound came again. Soft. Broken. Human.
She did not go back into her room.
Instead she moved toward the noise, bare feet silent on the thick carpet.
The hallway grew darker the farther she went.
At the end stood a heavy oak door.
Locked.
She pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence.
Then a whisper so faint she almost missed it.
"Please… help me."
Evelyn jerked back, heart slamming against her ribs.
Whatever was behind that door was not a ghost.
It was alive.
And it was suffering.
She pressed her palm flat against the wood, feeling the faint vibration of someone breathing on the other side.
The house was not just holding secrets.
It was holding someone prisoner.
And now she was part of it too.