Chapter 5

 [The Woman in the Foundation]

The air that billowed up from the hidden staircase was not merely cold; it was ancient. It carried the scent of damp limestone, rusted iron, and the sharp, cloying odor of medicinal spirits. Ivy froze at the precipice, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The skeletal hand that had snagged her emerald hem was gone as quickly as it had appeared, retreating back into the gloom of the stairwell, but the sensation of those cold, spindly fingers remained branded on her skin.

"Walk, Ivy," Dante commanded. His voice was no longer the smooth bourbon of the ballroom; it was the crack of a whip. He stood behind her, a towering shadow that blocked out the warmth and light of the gallery. "You wanted to help the voice in the wall. You wanted to play the saint. Now, let’s see if your halo survives the basement."

"Dante, please," Ivy whispered, her eyes fixed on the darkness below. "This is kidnapping. This is torture. If you let me go now—if you just let me help her and leave—I won't tell anyone. I’ll vanish. You can have the money, the house, everything."

Dante let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You still think this is about money? You still think there is a world outside this house where you can run? You are the blood debt, Ivy. And blood is never settled with cash."

He placed a hand between her shoulder blades and shoved. It wasn't enough to make her fall, but it was enough to force her first step onto the cold stone. With a gasp, Ivy descended. Dante followed, his heavy boots echoing with a rhythmic, funeral thump on the stairs. As they went deeper, the opulent sounds of the mansion—the ticking of grandfather clocks, the hum of the distant ocean—faded, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like water filling her ears.

At the bottom of the stairs, the space opened into a circular chamber built directly into the cliffside rock. A single, dim lantern hung from the ceiling, casting long, flickering shadows that danced like demons on the walls.

In the corner, huddled on a narrow cot draped in moth-eaten velvet, was the woman.

She looked like a wraith. Her hair, once as dark as Ivy’s, was now a matted halo of silver and gray. Her skin was the color of parchment, stretched tight over a frame that seemed composed of nothing but glass and grief. She was draped in a black silk gown that had once been beautiful, now tattered and stained. Around her ankle was a polished silver shackle, connected to a long, heavy chain that disappeared into the stone wall.

"Mother," Dante said, his voice softening into something that was somehow more terrifying than his anger. It was a tone of reverence laced with madness.

The woman looked up. Her eyes were sunken pits of fire. She looked at Dante for a moment, a flickering recognition crossing her face, but then her gaze shifted to Ivy. The change was instantaneous. Her pupils dilated until her eyes were black voids, and a low, guttural hiss escaped her lips.

"St. Claire," the woman rasped. The voice was a ruin, a sound like dry leaves being crushed. "I smell the rot. I smell the man who stole the sun."

Ivy scrambled backward, her back hitting the cold stone wall. "I... I’m not him. I’m Ivy. I didn't know... I swear, I didn't know you were here."

The woman lunged. The chain snapped taut with a violent clank, stopping her inches from Ivy’s throat. Her long, yellowed fingernails clawed the air, desperate to find purchase in Ivy’s skin.

"She has his eyes, Dante!" the woman shrieked, her voice rising to a pitch that made Ivy’s ears ring. "Why did you bring the filth into the house? Why is his blood walking in my room?"

Dante stepped forward, walking calmly into the woman’s reach. She didn't claw at him; she grabbed his hand, pressing his palm to her sunken cheek. "I brought her to pay the interest, Mother. Arthur St. Claire took your life. He took my father. So, I took the only thing he ever loved. I took his legacy. I took his daughter."

He turned his head to look at Ivy, his expression unreadable in the flickering lantern light. "Do you see her, Ivy? This is Isabella Moretti. Thirty years ago, she was the toast of the city. My father worshipped the ground she walked on. And when your father framed him, he didn't stop there. He told my mother that if she didn't disappear—if she didn't let the world believe she was dead—he would make sure my father never saw a trial. He promised he would kill him in his cell within forty-eight hours."

Ivy shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "He told me she died in an accident. He told everyone..."

"He lied," Dante snapped, his voice echoing in the chamber. "He kept her in a private 'sanitarium' for years, drugged and broken, paying for her silence with the money he stole from my family. I only found her six months ago. I found her in a cage, Ivy. So, I brought her home. To our cage."

Isabella let out a whimpering moan, her fingers tangling in Dante’s hair. "He smells like him, Dante. The girl... she smells like the man who put the needles in my arms. Kill her. Feed her to the sea."

"No, Mother," Dante whispered, stroking Isabella’s matted hair. "Death is too quick. She is going to stay here. She is going to see what it's like to live in the dark. She is going to be your shadow."

Ivy’s breath hitched. "What? Dante, no. You can't keep me down here. You said I had a room upstairs! You said I was your possession!"

"You are," Dante said, standing up and turning toward her. The tenderness he had shown his mother vanished, replaced by a cold, clinical cruelty. "But a possession is only valuable if it serves a purpose. Upstairs, you are my ornament. Down here, you are a penance. You will spend your nights here, in the dark, listening to my mother tell you about the things your father did to her. You will feel every ounce of the pain he inflicted."

He walked toward Ivy, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Ivy tried to run for the stairs, but he was faster. He caught her by the waist, his arm like an iron band, and swung her toward the second cot in the corner—one she hadn't noticed before. It was freshly made, with crisp white sheets that looked obscene in the filth of the cellar.

"This is your throne, Little Bird," he mocked.

He forced her down onto the mattress. Ivy fought, kicking and scratching, but he pinned her wrists above her head with a single hand. He leaned down, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"If you scream, no one will hear you. The stone is six feet thick. If you try to hurt her, I will make sure your father’s death in prison is the slowest event in recorded history."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second silver shackle.

"No!" Ivy screamed, her voice cracking. "Dante, please! I’ll do anything! I’ll love you! I’ll pretend! Just don't chain me!"

Dante paused, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. For a second, a flicker of something—regret? desire? madness?—passed through his dark eyes. "You'll love me? You don't even know what that word means, Ivy. You’ve lived in a world of silk and lies. Love isn't a feeling. It’s an obligation. It’s a debt that never ends."

He leaned down and kissed her. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a claim. It tasted of salt and iron. It was a brand on her lips, a final seal on her fate. When he pulled away, he didn't look at her. He moved with efficient, cold speed, snapping the shackle around her right ankle.

The cold metal bit into her skin, and the heavy chain rattled against the stone floor.

Dante stood up, adjusting his tuxedo jacket as if he hadn't just destroyed a woman’s life. He walked toward the stairs, taking the lantern with him.

"Dante! Don't leave me in the dark! Please!"

"The dark is where the truth lives, Ivy," he said, stepping onto the first stair. "Get to know my mother. She has stories to tell you. Stories about the man you called 'Daddy.'"

"I hate you!" she shrieked, the chain clanging as she lunged toward the stairs. "I will kill you for this!"

Dante stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The light of the lantern hit his face from below, making him look like a demon rising from the pit.

"I certainly hope so," he whispered. "It’s the only way this story can end."

He reached the top of the stairs and pulled the lever. The stone wall began to slide shut, the grinding of rock on rock drowning out Ivy’s screams. But just before the light vanished completely, a small, white object fluttered down from the gallery above, landing on the floor near Ivy’s feet.

It was an envelope. A heavy, cream-colored envelope with her father’s seal.

The wall clicked shut. Darkness—absolute and suffocating—swallowed the room.

From the other side of the cellar, Isabella’s low, raspy laughter began to echo. "He didn't tell you the best part, Little Bird," the woman hissed in the dark. "He didn't tell you what was in the letter."

Ivy’s fingers fumbled in the dirt, finding the envelope. Her hands shook so hard she could barely rip the paper. She didn't need light to feel the contents. Inside was a key. A small, cold, brass key.

And a note, written in her father’s hurried, desperate hand.

Ivy, if you are reading this, I am already gone. The key fits the red box in the floorboards of your room. Don't trust Dante. But more importantly... don't trust what’s in the box. It’s the reason he can never let you go alive.

Ivy gripped the key, the metal cutting into her palm. Suddenly, a hand—dry, cold, and smelling of death—clamped over her mouth from behind.

"Give me the key, St. Claire," Isabella whispered into her ear, her breath smelling of rotted lilies. "Give it to me, or I’ll tell him what you’re hiding under your dress."

(Watch out for Chapter 6)

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