CHAPTER ONE: The Cage that breathes

The car ride had been silent.

No words. No comfort. Just the hum of the engine and the rhythmic clink of ice melting in Lucien’s glass.

Evelyn didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t look out the window. She sat still, hands folded in her lap, her breath shallow. The beige coat they’d given her at the auction was still draped over her shoulders, useless against the cold that had settled inside her bones.

When the gates opened, she didn’t see the mansion. She saw a fortress.

It was too perfect - stone and glass and silence, perched like a crown atop a hill, surrounded by nothing but black trees and a sky that looked as if it had forgotten how to hold stars - lights burned in every window, not warm, but cold and watchful. The house didn’t welcome her.

It waited.

Lucien didn’t touch her. He simply opened the door and walked inside, expecting her to follow. And she did, because she didn’t know what else to do. For when you’ve already been bought, there is no such thing as “no.”

Inside, it was worse.

The walls were lined with velvet and gold. Art hung in every hall, paintings of broken things: a swan with its wings clipped, a girl with her mouth sewn shut, a wolf standing over a pile of white feathers. The air smelled like roses and ruin. The floors were black marble veined with silver, polished so sharply she could see the blur of her own reflection as she walked.

Everything was beautiful.

Everything was a trap.

A woman in black gloves met her at the stairs. She had eyes like glass and a smile that didn’t reach them.

“Come,” she said. “He wants you cleaned.”

As if Evelyn were dirt.

The bath was scalding. The room was silent. No music. No comfort. Just water too hot and hands too cold as they peeled the coat away, slipped off the silk dress, and lowered her into the tub. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She let them scrub her skin raw, wash her hair, towel her off like a doll being repainted.

She was dressed in white silk afterward. A nightgown too fine, too soft, clinging to her body like fog. The robe they tied around her was heavier, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered in the candlelight.

Then she was led down a long hall. Each door they passed whispered something different: laughter behind one, music behind another, a sob behind the third.

They stopped at the last door.

It was made of dark wood, carved with thorns and roses. The woman opened it without a word and gestured inside.

“Your room.”

Your room.

Like that meant anything.

The space was massive, bigger than her childhood home. A four-poster bed dominated the center, draped in silks so pale they glowed. There were windows, tall and arched, with heavy curtains drawn shut. A fireplace burned low on the far wall. There were no locks on the door.

But Evelyn knew.

This wasn’t a room.

It was a cage that breathed.

She stood in the center for a long time, unsure whether to sit, to cry, or to scream. But she did none of those things. She simply walked to the bed and climbed in. The sheets smelled like nothing. Like someone had gone through great pains to erase every trace of the girls who had lain there before her. 

Because she wasn’t the first.

And she wouldn’t be the last.

The lights dimmed on their own. The fire cracked once. And the silence that followed was unbearable.

She stared at the ceiling. Counted the beams. Listened for footsteps.

They didn’t come.

Lucien didn’t come.

He had bought her. But he didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

He was patient. That was what terrified her the most.

Because monsters who strike quickly have mercy compared to the ones who wait.

And Lucien Saint-Croix had the patience of a god.

Somewhere in the house, a piano began to play. Soft. Slow. A melody that sounded like mourning. It wasn’t for her. It wasn’t for anyone.

It was just music.

Or maybe it was a warning.

She lay still, eyes wide open, white silk twisted around her like a shroud.

And when sleep finally took her, it didn’t bring dreams.

It brought the echo of Lucien’s voice from earlier, low and cold, replaying in her mind like a prophecy:

“Don’t mistake softness for safety, Evelyn.”

“I didn’t buy you to protect you.”