Ten years ago, Vivienne D’Arcy vanished from the world of high society after the sudden, mysterious death of her father. Now, she returns to Rosemoor Manor, the estate of secrets and sorrow, to confront the past she’s tried to forget—and the man who never truly let her go.

Damien Vale is no longer the reckless boy she once loved. Cold, powerful, and intoxicatingly dangerous, Damien hides secrets darker than the halls of the crumbling manor. When he hands her a sealed letter from her father—one kept hidden for a decade—Vivienne is thrust into a game of deceit, obsession, and forbidden desire.

As their twisted history resurfaces, so does the passion they swore they'd never feel again. But some shadows don’t just linger—they consume.

In a world of velvet lies and deadly devotion, Vivienne must decide if she’s ready to face the truth...
Even if it means losing herself in the man who could destroy her.

A tale of gothic romance, betrayal, and power—where love is both poison and cure.

The mirror room beneath the gallery was colder than Vivienne expected.


It was a vault—lined from floor to ceiling with antique Venetian mirrors, warped and ghosted with time. No cameras. No windows. Just reflections staring back like witnesses too old to speak.


Rhett's body lay on the floor, half-covered by Damien's jacket. His face looked strangely calm now, as if death had granted him something life never could—silence.


Vivienne leaned against one of the glass walls, her pulse slowing, her eyes not blinking. Damien stood nearby, wiping the gun clean with a handkerchief. Neither spoke for a long time.


Finally, she said, "I thought I'd be sick."


"That scares me more than if you were."


She turned her head toward him, her reflection fractured behind her. "I don't need you to protect me from myself, Damien."


"I'm not. I'm mourning the girl you used to be."


Vivienne gave a dry laugh. "She died long before Rhett did."


Then she said, "Tell me everything you know. Every name. Every deal. No more secrets."


"The Vale family used Rosemoor as a pass-through. Galleries. Real estate. Charities. Your father was supposed to oversee the last phase—converting offshore accounts into political leverage."


"No. He turned. Wanted to expose them. But the more he knew, the more he realized it was already too late."


Vivienne's hands curled into fists. "He was silenced."


"Not just you," Damien said. "Anyone who remembers the old network. Anyone who could talk."


Vivienne moved toward the mirror in front of her. Her reflection was pale, her honey-brown eyes like fire through smoke.


"She disappeared when I was thirteen," Vivienne whispered. "You never asked why?"


"I did," he said quietly. "But I stopped when I realized no one wanted her found."


Vivienne closed her eyes. "She was too soft for this world."


"She ran," Damien said. "Took a train under a false name. But someone caught up with her in Florence."


Vivienne's throat clenched. "She's dead."


"Officially? No. But I know she's not coming back."


Vivienne stared at him, the ache in her chest old and bitter. "She loved Rosemoor. She loved my father."


"And he loved you. Enough to leave you everything—and nothing."


She stepped over the body and walked to the far side of the vault. Her hand pressed against the cold mirror. It didn't give.


Then she noticed a line—subtle, hidden in the frame. A seam.


Behind the mirror was a second chamber—smaller, lit by a single bulb. Inside were old file boxes, locked briefcases, and photographs pinned across corkboards. Her father's handwriting scrawled notes between dates and names. It was a war room.


Vivienne stepped in, her hand brushing the closest photograph.


Her breath caught. "He was protecting me from more than just the estate. He was watching everyone."


Damien read the files silently, lips pressed tight. "He wasn't just preparing to expose them. He was building something."


"No," Damien said, looking up. "A reckoning."


Chapter 8 - Glass Saints