Chapter Fourteen: Whispers in the Walls

I heard it again that night.

The sound that shouldn’t have existed in a house so thoroughly modern, so aggressively designed to be silent—like secrets had been engineered out of the walls. But secrets are stubborn. They crawl. They linger. They whisper when no one’s listening.

I sat upright in bed, my breath caught halfway between sleep and fear. The room was dimly lit by the moonlight slicing through the curtain gaps. My heart beat so loud I could barely distinguish it from the distant creaking sound. Not the wind. Not old pipes.

Voices.

Soft. Fragmented. Behind the walls.

I pushed the sheets off and slipped into Lucien’s silk robe, the one I’d found draped over his armchair a few nights ago. I told myself it was comfort that made me wear it now, not the lingering scent of him. I padded quietly through the room, pressing my ear to the cold marble wall.

There it was again. A woman’s voice, sharp and gasping, followed by something heavier—like dragging.

I froze.

Not imagination.

Not a dream.

I wasn’t losing my mind.

I followed the sound.

Down the corridor, barefoot and wide awake now. The East Wing—the one Lucien said was “under renovation.” I knew now that was a lie. There were no signs of construction. No tools. No scaffolding. Just locked doors, no staff, and the ever-present cold, like even heat dared not settle there.

The whispering led me to the far end, to a narrow hallway I hadn’t noticed before. It was darker than the rest. The air tasted different. Dusty, old. I reached out and touched the wall.

It trembled.

Not with my hand.

With something moving inside.

My breath caught.

Suddenly, the light above me flickered. One. Two. Gone.

Pitch dark.

Then I heard footsteps.

Not mine.

Not Lucien’s.

I turned back, ready to run, but a figure stepped into view from the opposite end—tall, broad-shouldered, and too familiar.

“Lucien,” I exhaled, more accusation than relief. “What the hell is this?”

He didn’t answer right away. His face was unreadable, a mask perfected over decades.

“I told you not to wander at night.”

“I heard voices.”

“You imagined them.”

I stepped toward him, fury building in my chest. “No, I didn’t. You’re hiding something in this house.”

His eyes darkened. “And what if I am?”

The coldness in his voice stopped me mid-step.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t try to gaslight me into questioning my sanity.

Lucien Blackwood confirmed there were things in this house that had no business existing.

“I’m not your prisoner,” I hissed.

“No. You’re my wife.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

His jaw flexed. “Go back to bed, Ivy.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

I glared at him, then pushed past—intending to walk away before I said something unforgivable. But his hand shot out, fingers circling my wrist in a grip that wasn’t hard but wasn’t gentle either.

“You think you’re ready for the truth,” he said lowly, “but you’re not. Trust me on that.”

I yanked my arm free. “Then stop calling this a marriage.”

And I walked away.

Every step I took back toward the main wing felt like a scream in the silence.

Back in my room, I locked the door for the first time since moving in.

The house was watching me.

I knew it now.

Lucien wasn’t the only ghost here.

The next day, the walls looked innocent again. Polished marble. Perfect lines. As if they hadn’t pulsed with whispers while the world slept.

But something had changed.

Lucien avoided me at breakfast. His silence wasn’t new, but it was different—charged. There was an extra phone call he took in French. A visit from a man in an expensive coat with a serpent ring on his finger. Lucien’s voice was low, furious. They spoke in a room I wasn’t allowed to enter.

I watched from the stairs, unseen. Invisible.

After the man left, Lucien disappeared into the East Wing.

And this time… I followed.

He didn’t see me.

He didn’t look back.

Which told me everything.

He wasn’t hiding me from the truth.

He was hiding the truth from me.

That night, I waited until the entire house was asleep. Midnight passed in silence. One a.m. dragged like slow poison. At two, I rose.

Barefoot again. Lucien’s robe again. I carried a flashlight I’d hidden in my drawer.

This time, I went to the far hallway with no hesitation.

The door that had once been locked now creaked open with a push. Dust floated like memories. The air was heavier. Not just cold—wet. Like there was something living under the walls, breathing.

The stairs curved downward into darkness.

I hesitated, just once.

Then descended.

The flashlight’s beam trembled as my hand shook. Stone walls lined the corridor below. Old stone. Much older than the rest of the mansion’s modern grandeur. Like this place had been built over something.

I moved deeper.

Whispers returned.

This time louder. More urgent. They weren’t ghosts.

They were recordings.

No. Not recordings.

Conversations.

I followed them, my blood turning to ice with each step. The final door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar. Warm yellow light spilled through the crack.

I peeked in.

And what I saw would haunt me for the rest of my life.

A woman stood in the center of the room. Pale. Elegant. Broken.

Chained.

Chained to the floor with gold cuffs.

And Lucien… sat before her.

Kneeling.

His hands in hers.

His forehead pressed to her knuckles like she was a queen and he a penitent knight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and my heart cracked in my chest.

The woman lifted his chin. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

He didn’t speak.

“You brought her into this cursed house, Lucien. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“She deserves everything.”

“She’ll hate you if she finds out.”

“She already does.”

I stepped back.

Stumbled.

The door creaked.

Lucien’s head snapped toward me.

Our eyes met.

And in that moment, the man I thought I was beginning to understand shattered.

“Ivy.”

I ran.

Up the stairs.

Down the hallway.

Through the dark.

Back into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind me. My hands shook too violently to lock it at first.

Lucien didn’t follow.

He didn’t need to.

Because what I saw in that room wasn’t a betrayal.

It was a wound.

And I had just ripped the stitches open.

The next morning, I found an envelope slipped beneath my door.

Inside: one black key.

No note.

No signature.

Just the key.

And a choice.

To unlock the past.

Or to run before it consumed me.

I stared at it for a long time, knowing one thing for certain:

This wasn’t just a house with secrets anymore.

It was a mausoleum.

And I had no idea who was still alive inside it.