"It wasn't just Lucien Vale she feared—it was the version of herself she became around him."
The house had shifted. Not in the obvious ways—not in thunder or storm. But in its breathing. It exhaled before she opened her eyes.
The morning sunlight slipped in like a thief, filtered gold weaving through the sheer curtains. Not loud. Not harsh. Gentle in the cruelest way.
Rhea stirred. Her eyelashes fluttered before her eyes blinked open to the ornate ceiling. For a moment she forgot where she was. Then the room answered for her.
The fire had been lit—its flames crackling softly, warmth licking the air in deliberate hush. But she hadn't touched it. The door she remembered locking—twice—now hung slightly ajar, as if the house had chosen otherwise.
Her body rose before her mind caught up. Bare feet against the cold wood floor, silk nightgown brushing her thighs. She walked toward the mirror, her reflection already watching her.
The girl in the glass didn't belong in this estate. Too modern. Too real. She looked like a ghost trying to haunt herself. Tousled black hair, sleep-creased lips, blue eyes smudged with the memory of dreams she didn't want to remember.
Her hand found the antique vanity. Fingers grazed the edge, almost unconsciously. Dustless. Maintained. Like it had been expecting her.
She turned toward the bed. The emerald velvet duvet. The gold-threaded throw. Her favorite curtains, still drawn back the way she used to like them. The scent of bergamot and rose lingered faintly—her grandmother's soap. Her own scent, once. Still.
Everything was exactly how she had left it a lifetime ago.
It mocked her.
The room was full of her. Every book on the shelf. Every carefully chosen piece of furniture. The plum-colored rug she insisted on. The brass lamp. The photos hidden in the drawer.
Like the house had been waiting.
A slow ache bloomed in her chest. Rage and nostalgia clashing in silence.
"Why does it have to be this perfect?"
She hated it. Every inch. Every loving detail. She hated it because she couldn't look at it without remembering what it had stolen.
Her grandmother. Her mother. Him.
Rhea moved to the window. The estate grounds stretched wide and waking, wrapped in morning mist. The garden paths she once ruled as a girl now lay shrouded in dew. She pressed her hand to the glass. The coolness shocked her.
The Voss estate had always had a cruel sense of humor.
She was about to pull away when a soft knock tapped at her door. Then—
"Rhea?"
Evie's voice.
"Come in," Rhea muttered.
The door creaked wider. Evie stepped in, wrapped in a blanket, a warm mug cradled in her hands.
"You're up early," she said softly. "Did you sleep at all?"
Rhea glanced over her shoulder. "Enough to remember why I didn't want to be here."
Evie didn't answer right away. She crossed to the bed and sat down at the edge. "You didn't have to come, you know."
"Yes," Rhea said flatly. "I did. For you."
Evie offered a soft smile. "I know."
They sat in silence.
Rhea looked back out the window. "Do you remember how we used to run through those gardens?"
Evie chuckled. "I remember trying to keep up. You and Lucien would dart between the hedges like feral children."
A flicker of warmth ghosted across Rhea's face. "He used to let me win. Until the day he didn't."
"That was the day you stopped speaking to him."
"No," Rhea said. "That was the day I realized I didn't know him."
The sun was climbing now, light streaking across the canopy bed, turning everything gold. Rhea stood straighter.
"This house is still playing tricks."
Evie reached for her hand. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just showing you who you've always been."
Rhea looked down at their fingers intertwined. It shouldn't have been comforting. But it was.
"Come downstairs when you're ready," Evie said gently, rising. "Agnes is setting up breakfast."
The door shut behind her.
Rhea stood in the middle of a room full of ghosts.
Then, with quiet resolve, she moved to the mirror. Fixed her face. Glossed her lips. And when she turned to the door, she walked as if she belonged there.
Because hate or not—
This was still her house.
And it had waited long enough.
The dining room was already half-lit, a morning hush stretching long through tall mullioned windows. Dust danced in sunbeams like quiet reminders that even light had to fight its way in.
The long oak table gleamed, set for three. Silver cutlery. White porcelain. A ceramic pot steaming with orange-peel tea. Someone—Agnes, no doubt—had arranged fresh orchids at the center. Not for comfort. For discipline.
Rhea entered without a word.
Evie sat at the far end, nibbling at a slice of toast, sketchpad balanced on her knee. She looked up and smiled, warm but distracted. "Morning."
Lucien sat opposite her. Poised. Polished. Not eating.
He was dressed in a dark collarless shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, veins ghosting beneath tanned forearms. He didn't look up.
Rhea hesitated. Then took the seat opposite him. Her every movement deliberate.
Agnes appeared like a shadow, refilling her cup with silent precision. "Fresh bread, marmalade, soft-boiled eggs. Will that be all, Miss Voss?"
Rhea nodded once, eyes never leaving Lucien.
Evie filled the space with brightness. "Lucien says the greenhouse's east windows can be unlatched—apparently the wood hasn't warped at all."
Lucien didn't acknowledge the compliment.
Rhea's spoon stirred her tea without drinking it. Her gaze drifted. Slow. Intentional. She watched the way Lucien's fingers rested against his cup. Still. As if poised for something else.
Why won't you look at me?
Evie prattled on—about seedlings, the strange hummingbirds near the conservatory, the old sundial half-buried in ivy. Lucien gave clipped replies. Efficient. Emotionless.
Rhea said nothing.
But her silence wasn't quiet.
It was aimed.
Every now and then, her ankle brushed the table leg. Her wrist grazed the linen. Her eyes traced the scar near his right knuckle.
She remembered tracing it once.
Back when he was fire and wind and impossible.
Now he was stone.
Finally, he spoke—without looking at her. "If you intend to use the study, the window is jammed. I'll have it seen to."
She narrowed her eyes. "I don't remember asking for help."
Lucien didn't flinch. "Then consider it a formality."
Evie blinked between them. "You two always talk like this?"
No, Rhea thought. We used to talk with our hands. Our mouths. Our silences.
Lucien stood. Folded his napkin. "Enjoy your breakfast."
His footsteps disappeared down the hallway, even. Measured.
Rhea watched him go.
Evie leaned across, whispering like a co-conspirator. "You're staring."
"No," Rhea murmured, lips curving into something unreadable. "I'm remembering."
The clock in her suite struck midnight.
Rhea lay still, tangled in sheets that refused to cool her skin. She had changed into a long silk nightgown—pale rose, barely opaque in the firelight. It clung to her like second skin, the hem skimming her ankles as she moved.
But there was no sleep.
Only the soft, maddening tick of the grandfather clock outside her door.
And a restlessness clawing at her ribs.
She rose, barefoot and silent, and wrapped her arms around herself as she padded into the hallway. The estate was hushed, the sconces dimmed to a gold-glow flicker. Shadows reached like fingers across the stone floor.
She wasn't sure where she was going.
Only that she needed air. Movement. Silence that didn't press so close.
The library door was cracked open.
She pushed it gently and slipped inside.
The scent hit first—old leather and forgotten storms. A fire burned low in the hearth. The books lining the walls towered like sentinels, and the velvet chaise by the window looked untouched since her mother's time.
But he was there.
Lucien.
Leaning against the far window, sleeves rolled, collar open, a glass of something amber in his hand.
He didn't move when she entered.
Didn't look.
Just took another sip and stared out over the darkened garden.
She should've turned around.
She didn't.
"Couldn't sleep," she said, barely above a whisper.
His voice came slow. Low. Measured.
"You never could. Not here."
She stilled.
The moonlight painted silver across his profile. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, mouth like sin in restraint.
Rhea took a step forward, the silk of her gown whispering around her.
"I thought maybe I'd find peace in pages," she said, voice tighter now. "Or pretend I was the girl who once read fairy tales in corners and believed people stayed."
Lucien's mouth curved—not quite a smile.
"You were never that naïve."
"I was with you."
Silence.
She moved again, each step deliberate, until only the antique coffee table separated them.
"Do you hate me?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, his eyes dropped—slowly, deliberately—from her eyes to the neckline of her gown, where lace softened into skin.
His gaze stayed too long.
When it returned to her face, something had changed. Sharpened.
"I remember," he murmured, "when you used to sneak in here after midnight just to ask what I was reading."
"And you'd lie," she said. "Make up entire stories."
"They were better than the truth."
"Maybe." She took a breath. "But the truth was what I wanted."
He set the glass down.
The click against wood was louder than expected.
Then he crossed the space between them, slow and coiled like something waiting to strike. But he didn't touch her. Not yet.
Rhea didn't move.
His presence crowded the room, breath close to hers, heat radiating between their bodies without even brushing skin.
Her chest rose, shallow and fast.
"Why won't you look at me the way you used to?" she asked.
His breath hitched. Just slightly.
"I can't afford to."
"Because you hate me?"
"Because I don't."
Her lips parted.
Lucien leaned closer, his voice barely wind now.
"You think you're the only one haunted?"
The space between them burned.
Still no contact. Still nothing but air and memory and breath.
But she felt undone.
And when she stepped back, it was only to breathe.
"I should go," she whispered.
"Then go."
But his eyes didn't let her.
And for a long, dangerous moment, neither did she.