Chapter 4

Dahlia's POV

Time seemed to stop, for a second.

Vincent's lips were still warm against mine when the door swung open, but he moved with lightning speed, releasing me and stepping back like he'd never touched me at all. He turned to the mirror, adjusting his shirt with casual indifference, as if he hadn't just been kissing me against a bathroom wall.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My lips still tingled where his had been.

My mother stood in the doorway, her eyes darting between us. "Dahlia? What's going on in here?"

"I was just washing my hands," I heard myself say, and my voice sounded strange, distant, like it belonged to someone else. I turned to the sink, my hands shaking as I reached for the faucet. "Vincent was just... leaving."

Vincent met my eyes in the mirror. There was no remorse there. No shame. Just cold amusement, like he'd just played a joke on me and was waiting to see how I'd react.

"Just making sure my new stepsister feels welcome," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with mockery. "Isn't that what family does?"

My mother's expression flickered with confusion, but she seemed to accept it. "Oh. Well, that's... that's nice of you, Vincent."

"Always happy to help," he said, and the smile that curved his lips was sharp as a blade.

He walked past my mother, brushing her shoulder without apology, and disappeared down the hallway. I heard his footsteps fade, and then there was silence.

"Dahlia, are you okay?" My mother stepped into the bathroom, her hands reaching for me. "You look pale. Did he say something to you? Did he threaten you?"

I shook my head, forcing a smile that felt like it was cracking my face. "No, Mama. He was just... being polite. We were just talking."

"Talking?" Her eyes narrowed. "You looked terrified when I opened that door."

"I was just surprised," I said quickly. "I didn't expect anyone to come in. I'm fine. Really."

She studied me for a long moment, her eyes searching my face for the lie. I could see her wanting to believe me, to push away the worry that had become a permanent feature in her expression.

"Okay," she finally said, though her voice said otherwise. "Okay. But I want you to come back to the table. Robert is going to show us to our rooms soon."

"Of course," I said. "I'll be right there."

She hesitated, then nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

I stood alone in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My lips were slightly swollen where Vincent had kissed me. My face was flushed, and there was a wildness in my eyes that I didn't recognize.

I touched my fingers to my mouth, still feeling the ghost of his lips against mine.

Why did he do that? Why did he kiss me? He hated me. He'd made that abundantly clear. He'd threatened me, cornered me, told me I was nothing.

And then he'd kissed me like I was something.

I pressed my palms against the cool marble counter and took a shaky breath. It didn't matter why he'd done it. What mattered was that I stayed away from him. What mattered was that I survived this.

I splashed cold water on my face, dried it with a towel, and forced myself to walk back to the dining room.

My mother was already seated again, Robert's hand covering hers on the table. They were both smiling. The scene was so picture-perfect it made my chest ache.

"There you are," Robert said warmly. "I was just telling your mother about the garden. It's beautiful this time of year. There's a lovely alcove near the fountain. Perfect for reading."

"That sounds wonderful," I said, sitting down. I didn't look at the empty seat where Vincent should have been.

My mother squeezed my hand under the table, her eyes full of love and worry. I squeezed back, trying to tell her without words that I was okay, that everything was going to be fine.

After dinner, Robert showed us to our rooms. My mother's was on the second floor, a beautiful suite with a balcony overlooking the gardens. Mine was right next door, smaller but still luxurious, with a big bed and a desk and a view of the hills.

"Make yourself at home," Robert said, gesturing to the room. "If you need anything, just ring the bell. The staff will be happy to assist you."

"Thank you, Robert," I said quietly.

He smiled and left, closing the door behind him.

I stood in the middle of my new room and looked around. Everything was perfect. The bed was soft. The sheets were clean. The walls were covered in soothing wallpaper. It was nicer than any room I'd ever slept in.

And I had never felt more alone.

I sat on the edge of the bed and let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My hands were still trembling. My heart was still racing. I could still feel Vincent's lips on mine, his hand on my neck, his body pressing me against the wall.

I closed my eyes and tried to push the memory away. I had to forget it. I had to forget him.

But even as I tried, something in my chest ached with a feeling I didn't want to name.

The first few weeks at the Carrington estate were a blur of adjustments.

I woke up every morning in a bed that was too soft, in a room that was too big, in a house that felt too much like a museum. Everything was clean and beautiful and carefully arranged, and I felt like a stain on the pristine marble floors.

I kept to myself as much as possible. I ate breakfast early, before anyone else was awake. I spent my days at school, then went straight to my room when I got home. I avoided Vincent Carrington like he was a plague.

But it was hard to avoid someone when you lived in the same house.

Vincent was always there. At dinner, he sat across from me, his eyes cold and dismissive. In the hallways, he brushed past me like I didn't exist. At night, I could hear him moving around in his room next to mine, and I'd lie awake, listening to the sounds of his footsteps, wondering what he was doing.

He never looked at me again the way he had that night in the bathroom. He never touched me. He barely acknowledged my existence.

But sometimes, when I caught him watching me, I saw something flickering in those cold blue eyes. Something that made my stomach flip.

I tried to tell myself I hated him. I tried to remember every cruel thing he'd said, every threat he'd made, every woman he'd used. I tried to convince myself that the kiss meant nothing, that it was just another way for him to exert control.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

One night, I couldn't sleep. The house was quiet. Everyone had gone to bed hours ago. I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, trying to quiet my mind.

I gave up and slipped out of bed, pulling on a cardigan over my nightgown. I needed water. And maybe if I walked around a little, I'd get tired enough to sleep.

The house was dark. I navigated by memory, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floors. The kitchen was at the end of the hallway on the first floor. I'd made this trip enough times that I could do it with my eyes closed.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard it.

Soft. Muffled. A sound that made me freeze.

I held my breath and listened. There it was again. The voices, coming from the library.

I shouldn't have gone closer. I knew I shouldn't have. Every instinct told me to turn around, go back to my room, pretend I hadn't heard anything.

But I was drawn there anyway.

I crept down the hallway, staying close to the wall, and peered through the gap in the library door.

Vincent was sitting in one of the big leather chairs by the fireplace. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his eyes were fixed on the flames. He looked... sad. Lost. Nothing like the arrogant, cruel boy I'd seen at school.

And then I saw her.

Miranda Storme was draped over the arm of his chair, bent over.