The rest of the morning unfolded in an uneasy quiet.
Eliana lingered in the sunroom long after Damon left. The sunlight had shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor tiles, but the warmth did little to thaw the chill coiled inside her. Every word he'd said echoed in her head like a riddle: "You used to come here when you needed to think… or escape." Escape from what? From him? From a version of herself she didn't recognize?
The question pressed against her skull, insistent and heavy.
She rose slowly and wandered back into the house. The silence inside the mansion was different from the hospital's sterile hush—it was richer, filled with the weight of history. But it still felt foreign, like walking through someone else's memories. The hallways were lined with polished portraits and photos, but not a single one featured her.
She paused at a tall gilded mirror in the hallway. Her reflection stared back—smoother skin, fading bruises, tired eyes. The silk robe she wore looked expensive, elegant, but nothing about her image rang familiar. She touched her face, half-hoping it would trigger something.
Nothing.
The echo of approaching footsteps made her tense. But it wasn't Damon this time.
"Good morning, ma'am," the maid who had brought their breakfast earlier said gently, curtsying slightly. She was young, with warm brown eyes and a soft voice that contrasted with the imposing home. Her name tag read "Amara."
Eliana managed a smile. "Morning."
Amara tilted her head, hesitant. "Would you like a tour of the house? It might help you settle in."
Eliana blinked, surprised by the offer. Damon hadn't mentioned anything about allowing her to explore freely. But then again, maybe he didn't need to know.
"That would be… nice," she replied cautiously.
The maid nodded. "Very well. We'll start with the first floor."
They moved quietly through the expansive ground floor. Amara explained the basics—kitchen, main lounge, private library, gym. Everything was sleek and modern, but lacked the warmth of a home lived in. The library caught Eliana's attention. Towering bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with hardbacks arranged by genre.
"You used to spend hours here," Amara said softly. "Especially when Mr. Blackwood traveled."
Eliana turned sharply. "I did?"
Amara froze, realizing she'd said too much. "I—I mean, that's what I heard."
Something in the maid's nervous demeanor told Eliana she hadn't imagined it. She pressed on gently. "It's okay. You can speak freely with me."
Amara hesitated, then lowered her voice. "I wasn't here long before the… accident. But it always felt like you were lonely, ma'am. You kept to yourself. You smiled for the staff, but it never quite reached your eyes."
Eliana's throat tightened. That hollow, echoing loneliness—she could feel it now, like a ghost lingering in the walls. Maybe it had been there long before the accident.
"Thank you for telling me," she said quietly.
Amara offered a polite nod and continued the tour.
They passed a locked door near the staircase.
"What's in there?" Eliana asked.
Amara hesitated. "That's the basement level. Mr. Blackwood keeps it locked."
Eliana arched a brow. "Why?"
"I wouldn't know, ma'am. No staff are allowed down there." Amara gave a strained smile, then added quickly, "Would you like to see the art gallery next?"
But Eliana's thoughts had snagged on the locked door. Why would Damon hide something in their own house? More importantly, why was she kept from it?
They ended the tour at a smaller sitting room near the west wing. Amara excused herself, leaving Eliana alone again.
As soon as she was out of sight, Eliana doubled back toward the staircase.
She stood in front of the basement door, her fingers brushing the cool brass handle. Locked, just as Amara said. She crouched, inspecting the lock—not electronic, just a simple keyhole. It wouldn't take much. Her pulse quickened at the thought. What was she even doing? Sneaking around her supposed husband's house?
But the answer was simple: She didn't trust him.
A soft vibration startled her.
The phone.
Damon had left a sleek smartphone charging on a hallway console near the entrance. She approached it cautiously. The screen blinked awake with a soft touch, locked behind a six-digit code. Of course.
But just as she turned to leave it, a notification popped up:
Incoming Message: Unknown Number – "She doesn't belong there."
Her heart stopped.
She stared at the message, her breath trapped in her lungs. The sender was unlisted, the words ominous and urgent.
The phone locked itself again with a soft click.
"She doesn't belong there."
Who was "she"? Was it about her? Who had sent it—and more importantly, who were they warning?
A sudden sound behind her made her flinch.
"Eliana."
Damon's voice.
She turned too quickly, nearly knocking the phone off the console. He was standing at the end of the hall, no tie now, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable.
Her mind scrambled for an excuse, but he didn't comment on the phone. Instead, he stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Were you looking for something?"
She forced a casual tone. "Just… walking around. Trying to remember."
He studied her. "The maid said she showed you the house."
"She did. Most of it." Her eyes flicked, too quickly, to the basement door. Damon noticed.
His jaw tightened.
"That area's under renovation," he said evenly. "Dangerous. Best to stay out."
She nodded slowly, though her chest tightened at the lie. Renovation? There hadn't been any signs of work, no tools, no dust, no smell of paint. Just silence. And secrets.
"Right," she murmured. "Of course."
He reached for the phone, glanced at it, then pocketed it without unlocking it. If he saw the message, he didn't show it.
"Eliana," he said after a beat. "I know this place doesn't feel like home yet. I don't expect you to pretend it does."
She looked at him, really looked at him. The expensive watch. The smooth voice. The carefully measured kindness. It all felt like a performance. And yet… there was something in his eyes today that hadn't been there before. A flicker of uncertainty? Guilt?
"Then what do you expect me to do?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated. "To give it time."
She didn't respond. Couldn't. Because giving it time felt like surrendering. And that, she wasn't ready to do.
He offered her his hand.
She stared at it, torn between suspicion and curiosity. After a moment, she placed her fingers lightly in his.
"I want to show you something," he said.
He led her to a room she hadn't seen yet. A private study with dark paneled walls, a grand mahogany desk, and bookshelves stacked with ledgers, contracts, and law books. But what caught her eye wasn't the decor—it was a painting on the wall.
A large portrait of her.
She stood, regal and composed, in an emerald gown, looking over her shoulder with a faint, wistful smile. It was… beautiful. And eerie.
"I had it commissioned for our anniversary," Damon said softly. "You hated it at first. Said it made you feel like a ghost in a gilded frame."
Eliana felt a chill crawl up her spine.
"A ghost," she echoed. "Sounds about right."
He didn't speak, just watched her.
She turned back to the painting, eyes tracing the fine brushstrokes. She did look like herself—and yet not. There was something in that woman's eyes she didn't recognize.
Something she wasn't sure she wanted to find again.