Chapter Four

CHAPTER 4

Isla's pov

I didn’t want to be here.

Not in this house. Not again.

The air still smelled the same, of waxed wood, old money, and something faintly herbal, like lavender buried under dust. The walls hadn’t changed either. They remained tall, oppressive and lined with ancestral portraits that stared down at you as if you’d already disappointed them. This house was too quiet, too clean, too calculated.

My heels clicked along the marble as the old butler, Bram, as Alaric had called him, led me through the South Wing. The silence between us was brittle but oddly comfortable. He seemed the type who’d spent decades perfecting the art of being invisible.

“This way, Miss Virelle,” he said, stopping in front of a heavy oak door.

He opened it for me, and I stepped inside.

The guest room was beautiful of course. Oversized windows framed with midnight-blue drapes. A fireplace, already glowing. A bed carved from dark wood, dressed in silver linens. There was even a robe waiting for me on the edge of a velvet chaise.

But none of it mattered.

Because I’d been in this room before.

I swallowed hard and took a shaky breath, letting my fingers drift over the edge of the fireplace mantle. The stone was colder than I remembered.

It was here, two years ago, that everything had unraveled.

I had come early to surprise Devon. My flight had landed ahead of schedule, and I’d raced here in a cab, with a fluttering heart and a bouquet in hand. I remember how nervous and excited I’d been. This mansion had intimidated me then, just as it did now, but I’d told myself it didn’t matter. I was going to be his future. The fiancée. The woman who’d fit into this ancient, crumbling portrait of power.

I’d let myself in, laughing at how quiet everything was. Bram had given me a knowing smile. He didn’t warn me. Why would he?

I’d found Devon in this room.

And although he was not alone.

I still remembered the silk of her dress. Gold. Thin as spiderwebs. I remembered how her laughter stopped when she saw me. How Devon hadn’t looked surprised, just annoyed. Like I’d broken something delicate by walking in. Like I’d broken something delicate by walking in. Like I was the one who had trespassed.

He hadn’t apologized nor did he chase after me.

He ended things a week later over coffee. Blamed the pressure. Said I didn’t “get” the world he lived in. That I wasn’t “cut out” for it. But I knew the truth. He wanted less fire, more softness. Less ambition, more obedience. Someone who didn’t challenge him. Someone he could control.

And yet, here I was again, back in the same room, with the ghosts still whispering in the corners.

I sank onto the edge of the bed and dropped my clutch to the floor. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the robe. My dress clung like a second skin, still wet from the storm.

I peeled it off slowly, and dropped the silk to the floor, before wrapping myself in the robe, curling my legs beneath me. The warmth of the fire touched my skin, but it couldn’t thaw the ache in my chest.

What was I doing?

I had told myself this was all for closure. For justice. For taking something back. But the moment I stepped foot inside this house again, I realized I wasn’t the one holding the knife.

This place still had power over me.

And Alaric Crest? He was the crown atop it all.

He made me slightly unsettled. Not just because he was powerful, or attractive in that dangerous, knowing way, but because he saw too much. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he already half-solved, like he knew how many pieces I was missing.

What was worse? He seemed amused by me. I hated it. Hated how he saw through the armor I’d so carefully strapped around my ribs. Devon had never looked at me like that. Devon had wanted a version of me that was more sharpened, polished, obedient. Alaric didn’t want a version. He wanted the whole thing, jagged edges and all.

I didn’t trust it…I didn’t trust him.

But I had no other choice tonight. The storm had seen to that. The hotel was too far and my phone had died somewhere between my stubbornness and the thunder. And no Uber in the world was going to find its way to this haunted fortress of stone and secrets at 3 a.m.

I lay back against the pillows, staring up at the carved ceiling. Even the plaster here was too rich. I wondered how many women had cried into these sheets, how many had tried to tame the Crest men and failed.

I wasn’t trying to tame anyone.

I was just trying to win.

But what was the prize? I wasn’t sure anymore.

Maybe it wasn’t about Devon. Maybe it never was. Maybe this whole thing had been about me all along…just trying to prove something, to reclaim something. Maybe I wanted to see if I could walk back into this place and not fall apart.

So far, I haven't been doing very well.

There was a soft and polite knock at the door.

I didn’t move to answer it.

After a moment, I heard footsteps fade down the hall again.

The robe was too warm now. Or maybe it was the memories.

I stood and walked to the window, parting the curtains just slightly.

Rain still fell in fine mist, brushing the glass like breath. The garden below was overgrown and shrouded in fog, but even in the dark I could make out the statue of a woman with no face, standing in the center.

It felt fitting, beautiful, ruined and above all, nameless.

I closed the curtain and went back to bed.