Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Crimson Thread

The air in the mansion had changed.

It wasn’t just the tension anymore. It was dread — thick and heavy, like the sky before a violent storm. The kind of dread that presses into your bones and makes the walls feel like they’re listening.

Every door creaked louder. Every shadow lingered longer. And somewhere deep in the house, Ethan was watching.

Christopher and I kept our secret, but the fear of discovery grew with each passing day. Our meetings were shorter, more hurried, stolen in stairwells or behind the greenhouse’s tall hedges. And every time he touched me, it felt like we were daring fate itself to come crashing down.

But I wasn’t afraid of the fall anymore.

I was afraid of what we’d find once we landed.

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One morning, I woke to find another letter slipped under my door.

No return. The thread runs crimson. Find the box in the attic. — V.

I stared at the note, heart hammering. The writing was the same elegant scrawl I’d seen on Aurelia’s letters to Vincent. But Vincent was dead — wasn’t he?

Or had someone been writing in his name?

I folded the note and tucked it into the diary. Then I climbed the staircase that led to the old attic.

It hadn’t been opened in years.

Dust coated every surface, and the air smelled of mothballs and secrets. I searched through old trunks and crates until I found it — a wooden box, locked with a silver clasp.

The key… was hidden inside a porcelain doll’s head.

Twisted. Brilliant. Typical of Aurelia.

Inside the box were photographs. Some of Aurelia, but most of Ethan and a man I didn’t recognize — tall, dark-haired, with a hard mouth and calculating eyes.

Vincent Hartley.

And the pictures told a story no one had dared to speak.

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In one, Vincent stood beside Ethan, both younger, both smiling — but there was something unnatural about their closeness, something performative. Another photo showed Aurelia, alone in the gardens, her eyes hollow, her fingers clutching a locket.

I opened the bottom drawer of the box and found a small velvet pouch. Inside — a necklace.

The locket from the photo.

I clicked it open.

Inside was a folded piece of paper, stained with age.

> “If I disappear, follow the crimson thread. Ethan isn’t who you think he is. He used Vincent. He used me. He’ll use you too.”

I backed away from the box, hands shaking.

The thread wasn’t just metaphorical. It was real — and it was bleeding through generations of manipulation, madness, and obsession.

---

I found Christopher that evening in the wine cellar. He was sitting on the stone bench, sipping something deep red, his expression unreadable.

“You were right,” I said, voice breaking. “She tried to leave. She tried to escape with Vincent. Ethan stopped her.”

Christopher stiffened. “He told me Vincent was a con artist. A liar who tried to manipulate her into running away. I believed him.”

“He killed him,” I whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

Christopher’s glass shattered in his hand, crimson spreading across his palm.

And still, he didn’t flinch.

“We’re in this too deep,” he said hoarsely. “He’ll destroy us both.”

I dropped to my knees and wrapped his bleeding hand in a cloth, holding it close. “Then let him try. We have the truth now. That’s something.”

He looked at me like I was the only thing tethering him to the world.

And then he kissed me again — brutal, raw, laced with the kind of desperation that came when love and ruin were indistinguishable.

---

But the next day, Ethan struck.

He called a formal dinner. Rare. Suspicious. The kind of thing people did before declarations — or executions.

I dressed carefully, wearing the locket hidden beneath layers of silk. Christopher sat beside me at the long table, tension tight in his jaw. Ethan raised a glass and smiled at me like a serpent preparing to swallow its prey.

“To our guest,” he said. “Or should I say… infiltrator.”

The room stilled.

“I found something curious in the attic,” he continued, eyes fixed on me. “A box that should have remained locked.”

I didn’t blink. “And yet, you left the key in a doll’s head. Not exactly secure, is it?”

His smile twisted. “Some things are better left buried, darling.”

“Like your crimes?” I asked sweetly.

Christopher stood suddenly, the chair scraping back.

“Enough!” he barked. “This ends here, Ethan.”

Ethan turned to him slowly. “So it’s true. You’ve fallen for her.”

“I didn’t fall,” Christopher growled. “I chose her.”

The silence that followed was volcanic.

Ethan’s hand moved toward the silver knife on the table, but I was faster. I rose, the locket in my palm, and threw it onto the table.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Cut me open. You’ve done it before — to your sister, to Vincent. But this time, the blood won’t wash away.”

For a moment, I saw fear flicker in his eyes.

Real fear.

Because he knew.

The truth was out.

And now… it was only a matter of time.

---

Later that night, Christopher and I packed our bags. We would leave in the morning. We had to. The mansion, once a cage of elegance, had become a tomb of lies.

But before dawn, I heard something shatter.

I ran downstairs barefoot, heart racing.

And there, in the foyer, was the locket — crushed under a boot.

Christopher lay bleeding on the marble floor.

Ethan stood over him, the same silver knife from dinner in his hand.

“This ends when I say it ends,” he said calmly. “You stole my sister. You stole my secrets. You think I’ll let you steal her too?”

I lunged, grabbing a candlestick from the table and swinging it hard. It hit Ethan in the side of the head, and he crumpled.

I dropped beside Christopher, sobbing, pressing my hands to the wound on his chest.

“You’re not leaving me,” I cried. “You promised.”

He touched my cheek, his breath shallow. “I meant it.”

---

Sirens wailed in the distance.

I had called them before I came down. I don’t remember doing it, but somehow… I had known it would end this way.

They took Ethan away, unconscious. They took Christopher to the hospital.

And I was left, once again, in silence.

But this time, it wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything we’d lost.

And everything we might still salvage.

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