Chapter Two: The Robber

I take the servants' stairs because I can't bear to walk past all those people again. Past all those faces that saw me get slapped twice and did nothing. Past those faces who believe I'm the monster in this story.

My cheeks are still burning. My throat is tight with rage and humiliation. Of course. The problem is always Anastasia. Infuriating fucking Anastasia.

The east wing is silent when I reach it. Dark. This part of the house barely gets used, as it's just storage rooms and my bedroom, tucked away where I can't bother anyone.

Where I can't ruin Vivienne's perfect life just by breathing the same air.

I slam my bedroom door shut and stand there in the darkness, chest heaving, hands shaking with fury. The injustice of it all crashes over me in waves. Christopher's baby. Vivienne's triumph. Mother's slaps. The whispers. Fuck my life. Ugh.

I can't stay here. I can't just sit in this room and let them win.

I need water. Or air. Or something to stop me from screaming.

I wrench open my door and head back out, taking the long way through the main house because I don't trust myself not to go downstairs and tell them all exactly what I think of them.

The corridor is dimly lit, quiet. Everyone's still at the party, probably fussing over poor, pregnant Vivienne.

I'm passing the main offices, the library, the formal sitting room, Father's study, when I notice something wrong.

Father's study door is open.

I stop, my heart suddenly pounding. That door is never open. Father keeps it locked with a keypad code even when he's inside. He's obsessive about it, paranoid about his privacy.

And right now, he's downstairs with the guests.

So why is his study door standing wide open, light spilling into the dark hallway?

I should keep walking. Lock myself in my room like Mother ordered. Put on headphones and try to forget this nightmare of a night.

But I don't.

For some cursed reason, I move toward the study.

The door is already ajar. I push it open slowly, and it swings silently on well-oiled hinges. Father's study looks exactly like it always does, massive mahogany desk, leather chairs, walls lined with books he's never read and framed photos of him with senators and CEOs.

And a man in black tactical gear rifling through the desk drawers.

My breath catches in my throat.

He's tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that strain against the black fabric of his gear. Black gloves. A black mask covering everything except dark, intense eyes.

Eyes that snap to mine the instant I step inside.

We stare at each other.

Run, my brain screams. Scream. Do something.

But I'm frozen, hand still on the doorknob, pulse hammering in my throat. The intruder straightens slowly. "You shouldn't be here," he says.

His voice is deep. Dangerous, and it sends shivers down my spine.

"You're robbing us," I manage, which is possibly the stupidest thing I've ever said in my entire life.

"Not exactly." He closes the drawer with a soft click, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "Though I can see why you'd think that."

"Then what are you doing in my father's study?"

Something flickers across his face. Even with the mask obscuring most of his features, I can see it, surprise, maybe. Or amusement.

"Your father?" His voice drops, goes cold in a way that makes my skin prickle. "Richard Ashford is not your father."

"What?"

He takes a step toward me. I stumble backward but my shoulders hit the door frame.

"Richard Ashford," he repeats, each word deliberate and sharp, "is not your father."

"You're insane—"

He suddenly moves.

One second he's on the other side of the desk, the next he's right in front of me, and there's something silver glinting in his gloved hand.

All of a sudden, sharp, burning pain explodes in my neck.

I gasp, my hands flying to my throat. My fingers come away red.

Blood.

He stabbed me.

"What—" My voice cracks. The room tilts. "What did you—"

"Sedative," he says, and his voice sounds distant now. Distorted. Like I'm hearing him through water. "You'll wake up in a few hours. In your room. You'll think this was a dream."

My legs give out.

He catches me before I hit the floor, one strong arm around my waist, lowering me with surprising gentleness for someone who just drugged me. "I'm sorry, Celeste," he murmurs, and there's something almost regretful in his tone. "But you needed to know the truth. And this was the only way to plant the seed."

Celeste.

That name.

Why does it sound so familiar?

My vision is going dark at the edges. I try to fight it, try to stay conscious, but it's like drowning in ink.

The last thing I see is his eyes, dark and intense and full of secrets, staring down at me.

Then the darkness swallows me whole.