Chapter 8

Valerie's POV

Sleep never truly came.

I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling above the massive bed, listening to the silence that lived inside Vane Mansion.

It wasn't normal silence.

Normal silence felt empty.

This silence felt occupied.

As if something existed within it.

Watching.

Waiting.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father's face. Then Mike's. Then Sarah's. Then Silas standing in front of the fire with those cold gray eyes that seemed to see beyond skin and bone.

The hours crawled past.

At some point, I must have drifted into a shallow sleep because I woke with a sharp gasp, my heart pounding violently.

For a second, I didn't know where I was.

Then reality returned.

The mansion.

The contract.

Silas.

The room was dim.

Soft morning light filtered through the enormous windows, casting pale shadows across the floor. The white curtains moved slightly in a breeze I couldn't feel.

I sat upright.

My chest felt tight.

Everything that had happened yesterday felt unreal now.

Like a nightmare my mind had invented.

But then my eyes landed on the wardrobe.

The clothes.

The expensive furniture.

The unfamiliar room.

And the reality settled heavily inside me once again.

I wasn't dreaming.

This was my life now.

A strange feeling crept through me.

Loss.

Not the violent grief from my father's funeral.

Not the humiliation Mike and Sarah had caused.

Something quieter.

Something deeper.

The loss of certainty.

Twenty-four hours ago, I knew who I was.

Valerie Sergio.

Daughter of Dominic Sergio.

Future wife of Mike Reynolds.

Heir to a powerful family.

Now all of those things were gone.

Stripped away.

One by one.

Leaving behind someone I barely recognized.

I pushed the blanket aside and stood.

The room was cold.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Every object inside seemed carefully selected, perfectly positioned.

Nothing felt personal.

Nothing felt alive.

It reminded me of a showroom.

A beautiful place designed to be admired but never truly lived in.

I walked toward the window.

The glass stretched from floor to ceiling.

Outside, the estate unfolded beneath the morning fog.

The bone-white trees looked even stranger in daylight.

Their branches twisted upward like skeletal hands frozen in prayer.

Mist drifted between them.

The entire landscape looked detached from the rest of the world.

As if Blackwood Heights existed somewhere reality couldn't fully reach.

A shiver moved through me.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

Something about this place felt wrong.

Not dangerous.

Not yet.

Just wrong.

Like a puzzle assembled incorrectly.

My eyes drifted farther across the estate.

Then I noticed movement.

Several figures dressed entirely in black walked through the grounds below.

They moved with military precision.

No conversation.

No hesitation.

No wasted motion.

Each carried themselves with the same rigid discipline.

Security.

The realization settled quickly.

This mansion wasn't protected.

It was fortified.

The difference mattered.

Protected places expected danger.

Fortified places anticipated war.

A knock interrupted my thoughts.

Three soft taps.

Measured.

Controlled.

I turned.

"Come in."

The door opened immediately.

Mrs. Rose entered carrying a silver tray.

Steam rose from a porcelain teapot.

Breakfast.

The sight surprised me.

For a moment, it felt almost normal.

Almost.

Mrs. Rose placed the tray carefully on a small table near the window.

Fresh fruit.

Toast.

Tea.

Nothing unusual.

Yet even this felt deliberate.

Prepared.

Expected.

Like every moment inside this house had already been planned before it happened.

Mrs. Rose stepped back.

"Good morning, Miss Sergio."

Her voice remained calm.

Gentle.

Professional.

I studied her.

Yesterday, I had been too overwhelmed to pay attention.

Now I noticed details.

She appeared to be in her sixties.

Elegant posture.

Sharp eyes.

No wasted expressions.

She looked less like a servant and more like someone managing an institution.

I wondered how long she had lived here.

Years?

Decades?

Her face revealed nothing.

"Good morning."

The words felt strange.

Politeness inside a prison.

My gaze dropped briefly to the breakfast.

Then back to her.

Questions crowded my mind immediately.

The portraits.

The rules.

The contract.

The mansion.

Silas.

But I already knew how those conversations ended.

With silence.

Or half-answers.

Still, I couldn't stop myself.

"Mrs. Rose."

She waited.

"The women in the paintings."

For the first time, something flickered behind her eyes.

Gone almost instantly.

But I saw it.

Recognition.

My pulse quickened.

"Who are they?"

A pause followed.

Not long.

Just long enough.

"They are part of this house's history."

History.

Not an answer.

A carefully chosen avoidance.

My stomach tightened.

I looked away.

The fog outside had started to lift slightly.

The white trees became clearer.

More distinct.

Somehow that made them look even less natural.

"When did they live here?"

Another pause.

Mrs. Rose folded her hands neatly in front of her.

"Long ago."

Again.

No answer.

Only another wall.

Frustration stirred inside me.

I was tired of walls.

Tired of secrets.

Tired of people deciding what I could know.

But anger wouldn't help.

Not yet.

I forced myself to stay calm.

Mrs. Rose glanced toward the clock.

"Mr. Vane has requested your presence."

My heartbeat slowed.

Then quickened.

Silas.

Even thinking his name created a strange reaction inside me.

Not attraction.

Not fear.

Something harder to define.

Like standing near the edge of deep water.

You don't know what's beneath the surface.

Only that it exists.

"When?"

I asked.

Mrs. Rose's expression remained unchanged.

"Now."

Of course.

Everything in this house happened according to his schedule.

I looked down at my clothes.

Still the same ones I had worn after waking.

Mrs. Rose followed my gaze.

"The wardrobe has been prepared."

Prepared.

That word again.

Always prepared.

Always expected.

As if someone already knew every step I would take before I took it.

After Mrs. Rose left, I opened the wardrobe.

Rows of clothing filled the space.

Expensive.

Elegant.

Perfectly fitted.

My throat tightened.

Someone had known my measurements.

The realization unsettled me.

I ran my fingers across the fabric.

Everything was my size.

Every piece.

Every dress.

Every coat.

Every pair of shoes.

It felt invasive.

Like my life had been examined from a distance long before I ever arrived here.

Eventually, I chose a simple black outfit.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing that felt like surrender.

As I dressed, my reflection stared back at me from the large mirror nearby.

For a moment, I barely recognized the woman looking back.

The grief remained.

The exhaustion remained.

But something else existed now.

Awareness.

The realization that my life hadn't collapsed randomly.

Too many pieces connected.

Too many people knew things they shouldn't.

My father's death.

The debts.

ERS.

Silas.

The paintings.

The contract.

Somewhere beneath it all, a truth existed.

And I intended to find it.

Even if the mansion tried to bury it.

A few minutes later, I followed Mrs. Rose through the corridors once again.

Morning light poured through towering windows.

Dust floated through the air like drifting silver.

The mansion seemed different during daylight.

Less threatening.

More deceptive.

Beautiful enough to make someone forget to be afraid.

That was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

We turned another corner.

Then another.

The place seemed endless.

Every hallway opened into another.

Every staircase led somewhere hidden.

I found myself wondering how many rooms existed here.

How many secrets.

How many locked doors.

Eventually, Mrs. Rose stopped.

A pair of enormous wooden doors stood ahead.

Dark wood.

Intricate carvings.

Ancient symbols woven through the design.

My eyes narrowed.

I didn't recognize them.

Mrs. Rose stepped aside.

"Mr. Vane is waiting."

My stomach tightened.

I looked at the doors.

Then at her.

Then back again.

For some reason, I suddenly remembered the paintings.

The women who looked like me.

The rules.

No children.

No intimacy.

No questions.

The memory sent a chill down my spine.

Slowly, I pushed the doors open.

The room beyond was vast.

Sunlight spilled across polished floors.

Tall bookshelves stretched toward the ceiling.

A massive window overlooked the mountains.

And standing before it was Silas.

His back faced me.

Motionless.

Like he had been standing there for hours.

Waiting.

The doors closed behind me.

The sound echoed through the room.

Silas turned slowly.

His gray eyes settled on mine.

Then, for the first time since I met him, I saw something unexpected.

Not emotion.

Not warmth.

Recognition.

The same kind someone might have upon finding something they had spent years searching for.

My pulse stumbled.

Before I could understand why, Silas spoke.

And what he said made every thought inside my head disappear.

"The first wife looked exactly like you."