CHAPTER ELEVEN: SECRETS IN THE DARK

The rain started again the moment I opened the balcony doors.

A slow drizzle at first, like the sky had grown tired of weeping but couldn’t quite stop. I stood there, barefoot, the cool stone pressing into my feet, wrapped in one of Lucien’s dark robes that still smelled like spice and smoke. Below, the city was a blur of shimmering lights and secrets. Inside, the mansion loomed behind me—cold, quiet, watching.

Lucien hadn’t come home.

It was past midnight.

I should have been relieved. But the silence was oppressive, like the house itself was holding its breath. Like it knew something I didn’t.

I turned from the night and closed the doors. The lock clicked with a finality that sent a chill down my spine.

Was I waiting for him?

Or was I afraid of what the dark would whisper if I stayed alone too long?

I couldn’t sleep. My body was exhausted, but my mind thrashed restlessly against the pillow.

Everything between Lucien and me had become a knife-edge. Ever since the kiss. Since the way he touched me like he hated himself for it. Since the things he didn’t say.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, sitting in the center of the giant bed like a castaway. All the luxury in the world couldn’t muffle the truth: I was a stranger here. A pawn. A bride in name. A hostage in silk.

That’s when I heard it.

A sound.

Faint. Muffled. Coming from the west wing.

I froze.

This house had always been too quiet. I knew the creaks. The hum of security. The rhythm of the night.

But this—this was different.

A whisper of movement.

My heart thumped as I slid off the bed. I didn’t stop to change out of the robe. I padded out into the hallway, every step softer than a secret.

The corridor was dark, lit only by moonlight slipping through tall windows. The shadows reached out like fingers across the marble floor.

I shouldn’t be here. I knew that.

But I followed the sound anyway.

It led me toward the forbidden wing.

Lucien had warned me never to go there.

Not in words. In the way his voice dropped whenever I asked about that part of the house. In the security system that beeped ominously when I so much as stepped too close.

But tonight… the door was open.

Just a sliver.

An invitation. Or a trap.

I stood there for a long moment, my pulse loud in my ears.

Then I pushed it open.

The room beyond was nothing like the rest of the house. No sleek steel. No polished marble. It was warmer. Wood-paneled. Dimly lit. Dustier.

And filled with memories.

Photographs covered the walls. Black-and-white images. A boy with sharp cheekbones and colder eyes. A woman who looked like Lucien if he smiled. A man with shadows in his face. Frames. Documents. Letters.

An altar of grief.

I stepped closer, drawn like gravity pulled me.

A journal sat on the desk. The leather cover was cracked, the edges worn.

I shouldn’t.

I really shouldn’t.

But I opened it anyway.

The handwriting was bold. Sharp. Angry.

June 3rd. The coroner lied. They think I won’t find out, but I will. He didn’t just fall. Someone pushed him. I’ll prove it.

I flipped to another page.

They’re watching me. They think I’m weak, that I’ll let this go. But I won’t. I’ll burn it all down before I forget his name.

Another.

Elliot. I see you in my dreams. I won’t let them bury the truth with your body. I promise.

Elliot.

The name repeated like a pulse across the pages.

Who was he?

A brother?

A lover?

Someone Lucien lost… and never forgave the world for taking?

I didn’t hear the door until it slammed shut behind me.

I jumped, spinning—

Lucien stood there.

His face was made of ice.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed. My fingers still rested on the journal. “I heard something. The door was open—”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You broke into this wing. I told you never to come here.”

His eyes weren’t just cold. They were furious.

Not the sharp, simmering anger he used in meetings.

This was personal.

He stormed toward me. I backed into the desk, my heart hammering in my throat.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I whispered.

“That’s exactly what you did.”

He grabbed the journal from my hands. His knuckles were white.

“Elliot…” I said gently. “Who was he?”

Lucien’s jaw clenched.

He looked down. For a moment, I thought he’d shatter.

But then he looked at me, and the softness was gone.

“I don’t owe you that story.”

“I’m your wife, Lucien.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You’re a contract, Ivy. Don’t confuse that for trust.”

That stung. More than I expected.

“You pretend you don’t feel anything,” I said. “But you do. I see it. In your eyes. In the way you kiss me like you’re drowning—”

“Enough.” He stepped closer, and his voice dropped to a growl. “You want to know who Elliot was? He was the only good thing I had. And they took him. Now get the hell out.”

I moved past him, but not before I saw it—

A crack.

Just for a second, the rage slipped.

And beneath it, there was sorrow.

Real. Bleeding. Raw.

I walked out of the room, but the journal haunted me.

And I knew, deep down, this marriage had just shifted again.

Not because of love.

But because of a secret buried too deep for Lucien to say aloud.

I barely made it back to my room before I started to cry.

Not loud. Just the kind of tears that leak out when the weight of someone else’s pain settles into your bones.

What had they done to him?

What had he done in return?

I curled up beneath the blankets, the storm still raging outside.

But sleep didn’t come.

Because even through the thick mansion walls, I heard something else that kept me wide awake.

A scream.

One, sharp and muffled.

Not a nightmare.

A real one.

From somewhere deep inside the house.

And then footsteps.

Not Lucien’s.

Too soft.

Too slow.

I sat up.

Someone else was in this house.

Someone who wasn’t supposed to be.

And whatever secrets Lucien kept…

They weren’t all buried in journals.

Some were walking. Watching. And waiting.