The house had quieted after the dinner party, but it wasn't peace Zelda felt — it was pressure.
It sat behind her eyes and beneath her ribs, pressing inward every time she closed her eyes. She couldn't stop thinking about Lucien's voice at dinner: "Leave her alone." Just four words, but they echoed louder than any fight she'd ever heard in the house.
She turned in her sheets, sleeping a distant thing.
Down the hallway, someone was playing soft classical music — faint piano chords that barely touched the walls. Maybe Berrett, maybe Ryan. It didn't matter. She pulled on a hoodie and stepped out, the marble floor cold under her feet.
She wasn't planning to go far.
But her feet led her toward the west wing — the one few people used. The corridor was dim, painted in shadows, with tall curtains swaying gently from the night air slipping through the cracked windows.
Lucien's room was at the end of that wing.
She wasn't going there.
Just passing by.
She paused outside a room three doors down. It was slightly ajar, the light off. A flicker of curiosity pushed her inside. This used to be a study — one of the old, unused ones. She remembered coming here as a child, hiding behind chairs with Ryan, giggling while Berrett tried to find them.
Tonight, it smelled like dust and secrets.
She meant to leave — but her foot caught on something soft.
She bent, reaching down.
A scarf.
Not hers.
Black, silky, embroidered with a small "M" near the edge.
Zelda straightened slowly, eyes narrowing.
Marcella had been here?
She tucked the scarf into her pocket and turned to leave — but something else caught her eye.
On the old desk in the corner: an envelope. Torn open. Faintly yellowed, like it had been handled too much.
Curiosity gripped her.
She picked it up.
No address. No names. Just a single sheet of paper inside.
And handwriting that stopped her cold.
Lucien's.
She read slowly.
> "You said once that she reminded you of light in a dark place.
But light draws shadows.
And she deserves more than ghosts, doesn't she?"
Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the note again.
What was this? A letter meant for Marcella? A warning? A confession?
Zelda took a step back, heart suddenly racing.
She heard footsteps.
Quickly, she slid the letter back into the envelope and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
She didn't stop moving until she reached her own room.
---
Morning came, but it didn't bring clarity.
At breakfast, Lucien didn't speak to her. He barely looked her way.
Marcella arrived late, smiling wide, and dropped the black scarf into Zelda's lap under the table without a word. Just a glance — knowing, smug.
Zelda didn't speak either.
She just folded the scarf neatly and placed it back in Marcella's lap like a gift returned.
---
That afternoon, Zelda found Berrett alone in the garden, trimming roses like he knew what he was doing.
She sat beside him.
"Why does Lucien hate her?" she asked softly.
Berrett didn't look up. "Who says he does?"
"I saw his handwriting last night."
Berrett paused.
"I wasn't snooping," she added. "I found a letter. About shadows. About me, I think."
Now he looked at her.
"I can't tell you everything," he said. "But I'll say this — Marcella doesn't just want what she can't have. She wants what she can ruin."
Zelda looked down at her hands.
"And Lucien?"
Berrett sighed. "Lucien's never trusted easy. But with you… it's not about trust. It's about control. And he's losing it."
Zelda didn't reply.
Because deep down, she felt it too.
---
That night, when she passed Lucien in the hallway, he stopped.
"You were in the west wing," he said, voice low.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
She didn't answer.
Lucien stepped closer. His hand brushed hers — not to hold, just to warn.
"Stay out of rooms that whisper," he said. "Some things aren't ready to be heard."
He walked away.
Zelda stood there, heart thundering, whispering only to herself:
"I think I already heard them."