chapter four

Chapter Four

The Room That Doesn’t Exist

Sienna hadn’t seen Damien in two days.

Not since the gala. Not since he whispered to that woman right in front of her and left like she was nothing.

The housekeeper, Maria, said he hadn’t come home. Eleanor, on the other hand, walked around with a permanent sneer on her face like she knew something Sienna didn’t.

She always did.

Still, Sienna played her role.

She dressed properly. Ate quietly. Attended brunch with Damien’s aunts and smiled through their sharp, backhanded compliments.

But inside her, something was changing.

The girl who once tiptoed through the Westwood mansion like a ghost was learning to listen. To watch. To remember. She had no power here—but knowledge? That, she could collect.

And she had a new obsession.

Dante Westwood.

---

She returned to the library when no one was watching.

The folder she found on Dante had been moved. Hidden again. But she remembered the contents, the name of the street—Devil’s Bend—and most of all, the handwriting.

She’d seen it before.

On a small paper Damien had once thrown into the fire.

His handwriting.

He was the one who wrote: “He died that night. And so did Damien.”

Sienna didn’t know what happened that night, but she knew it was the beginning of everything broken about him.

And maybe… if she understood his wounds, she could understand why he wanted to destroy her too.

---

That evening, Damien came home.

He reeked of perfume and liquor. His jacket was wrinkled, eyes bloodshot. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

“Didn’t know you still lived here,” he muttered as he passed her in the hallway.

She turned to face him. “You didn’t come home for two nights.”

He stopped walking. His back was still to her.

“And?” he said, voice dangerously quiet.

“You could’ve told someone. I thought maybe you were in an accident.”

That made him turn. His expression was unreadable.

“Would you have cried, Sienna? Lit candles for your cold-hearted husband?” He took a step toward her. “Or would you finally get to enjoy this mansion alone?”

“I’m not trying to enjoy anything,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I’m just trying to survive here.”

That made something flicker in his eyes. Just for a second.

He looked away.

“Don’t wait up for me again.”

He disappeared into his room and slammed the door shut.

But he didn’t lock it.

---

That night, she waited until she heard silence.

Then she opened his door.

He was passed out on the bed, fully clothed, one arm hanging off the side. His phone blinked with missed calls—Cassandra, another girl named Brynn, someone saved only as “C.”

Sienna didn’t look twice.

She walked toward the desk instead.

The drawer was locked.

She bit her lip, glanced toward the sleeping Damien, and used the key she found hidden in the back of the library—a key Maria once called “useless.”

It fit.

Inside, she found papers. Letters. A small black journal.

She opened it.

“The crash wasn’t supposed to happen. He was drunk. I told him not to drive. But he wouldn’t listen.”

“Everyone says I was the lucky one… but I died with him that night.”

“They only started loving me after he was gone.”

She flipped further.

“She reminds me of him. The way she walks around like a ghost. Like she knows what it's like to never be wanted.”

Her breath caught.

Was he talking about her?

Then something fell from between the pages.

A photo.

Two boys.

One of them was Damien—smiling, carefree, alive in a way she’d never seen before. The other was a boy who looked almost exactly like him, just softer around the edges.

Dante.

The brother who never came home.

She pocketed the photo quietly and closed the drawer.

---

The next morning, Eleanor cornered her during breakfast.

“You were in Damien’s room last night,” she said, slicing her melon.

Sienna paused. “I—he wasn’t feeling well. I checked on him.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Eleanor’s eyes glittered. “You’re here to make the family look good, not to go snooping where you don’t belong.”

“I’m not snooping,” Sienna replied, calm but firm. “I’m trying to understand the man I was forced to marry.”

Eleanor’s knife froze.

And then she laughed. “Don’t waste your time. Damien is a hollow shell of a boy who was forced to become a man too soon. You won’t fix him, dear.”

She leaned in, voice dropping.

“And you’ll break yourself trying.”

---

Later that evening, Damien found her on the garden bench.

The night breeze rustled the trees as she hugged her knees to her chest.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, stepping behind her.

She didn’t answer.

“You were in my room.”

“And you left your door unlocked,” she said quietly.

He chuckled—dark and humorless.

“Curious little wife.”

“Why do you keep hurting people who try to care about you?” she asked suddenly, surprising even herself.

His jaw tensed.

“I don’t want anyone to care about me.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone who does... dies.”

She turned to look at him, truly look.

“You’re still grieving him.”

His expression shattered for a second.

But then it was gone.

“I don’t need your pity,” he muttered.

“You don’t have it. Just… your truth. That’s all.”

He stared at her.

Then he said something she never expected.

“There’s a room in this house. Locked. Everyone says it doesn’t exist. Don’t ever go near it.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

He just turned and walked away.

But that night, she dreamed of the room.

A door that whispered.

A lock that begged to be opened.

And on the other side—

Answers..