The first sliver of dawn felt like an intrusion. It pried open my eyelids, revealing the oppressive grandeur of the room – the soaring ceiling, the intricate plasterwork like frozen lace, the silence. Alone.The other side of the massive bed was pristine, untouched. A large monument to the transaction sealed last night. The cold weight of the diamond wedding band bit into my finger, a shackle. Vincent's rules weren't a nightmare. They were my new reality.
My body felt leaden, every muscle coiled with residual tension. The impossibly soft silk sheets grated against my skin, a constant reminder of the gilded cage. I pushed myself up, the marble floor shockingly cold beneath my bare feet. Last night's wedding gown lay crumpled on the floor, a ghost of a life violently discarded. Shivering, I pulled on the silk robe hanging in the closet – another impersonal item chosen by indifferent hands.
A heard a knock, I flinched, smoothing the robe. Replying hesitantly "Come in."
She entered, posture rigid, bearing a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Mrs. de la Rosa. I trust you rested well? I'm Mrs lamy" The question was a formality, expecting no truth.
"As well as could be expected, thank you, Mrs. Lamy," I managed, my voice carefully flat. I gestured to a small table. She placed the tray – exquisite porcelain, gleaming silver, food that looked like a still life painting. Food for the captive.
"Mr. de la Rosa requests your presence in the main drawing room at ten o'clock for introductions to the senior household staff," she announced. Not a request. A command. "I will return to escort you."
The hour passed. I picked at the food, my stomach roiling. The shower in the marble bathroom was scalding, yet failed to touch the cold dread lodged within me. I dressed in the provided clothes – cream trousers, cashmere sweater. Elegant. Expensive. Not my style. The mirror reflected a pale stranger with shadowed eyes, already playing the role of The Don's wife.
At ten precisely, Mrs lamy reappeared. "This way, Madam."
The mansion unfurled as I followed her. Grandeur pressed in: sweeping staircases, cold art in shadowed hallways, thick rugs swallowing sound. views through windows only underscored my isolation.
The drawing room was made of dark wood, green velvet, and ancestral glares. Vincent stood near the massive, cold fireplace, immaculate in charcoal grey, a crystal tumbler in hand. He didn't turn. His presence radiated of cold power.
Arrayed before him: six figures. Massimo, the guard from the courtyard, rigid, eyes forward. Silas, the consigliere _ the second time in command,his cruel gaze assessing me. A red-faced chef. A young maid, eyes downcast – the one from last night? The gardener. Mrs lamy taking her place.
"Penelope." Vincent's voice cut the silence, He turned, his harsh gaze sweeping over me with impersonal scrutiny before shifting to the staff. "This is your mistress. Mrs. Penelope de la Rosa. Attend her needs as you do mine. With efficiency and discretion." He paused, the weight of his command settling like stone. "Her well-being reflects upon this house. And upon me. Ensure it."
The message was clear: Serve her. Watch her. Report. Her value is tied to his image. The staff bowed slightly in unison. " Welcome Mrs. de la Rosa," they chorused.
Vincent's cold gaze lingered on me, "Mrs. Lamy will familiarize you with the East Wing. The rest of the house is not your concern."
Rule Four, reinforced publicly. "You have duties, Silas." The consigliere bowed and vanished.
The tour was brisk. Morning room. library with very few books . Formal dining room. Conservatory overlooking the walled garden –beautiful and suffocating, I noted cameras, no phones, the sheer, inescapable scale. Nyx cataloged: blind spots near large ferns, a service stairwell seemingly less monitored.
Back in my suite, the silence stretched. Hours bled away. Lunch arrived, eaten in lonely silence. Words in a book blurred.
Late afternoon. Restlessness became a physical itch, a scream building in my chest against the suffocating quiet of the East Wing. Driven by claustrophobia and the insatiable, dangerous curiosity that was Nyx, I slipped out. The corridor was deserted. I moved silently, soft shoes whispering on the thick runner.
Not heading anywhere. Just away. I turned down a corridor Mrs. La my hadn't shown me – darker wood, older, somber portraits. The air colder, dustier. Not your concern. The forbidden wing.
Then I heard it.
A low, guttural choke. A wet, sickening thud.
It came from behind a heavy, carved door, slightly ajar, at the corridor's end. Fear flooded my veins, rooting me to the spot, Every nerve screamed: RUN!
But Nyx, the seeker of hidden truths, the observer, pushed me forward. One silent step. Another. Heart hammering against my ribs, I peered through the narrow gap.
Vincent's study. Dark wood. Towering bookshelves. Massive desk. And Vincent.
He stood over a man sprawled on the expensive rug. The man was heavyset, suit disheveled, face contorted in terror and agony. One hand was a ruin of mangled flesh and bone, blood soaking the deep pile. Vincent held a heavy lead-crystal paperweight, its base dark and wet. His expression wasn't rage. It was chillingly focused.
Before I could process the horror, before I could even think to flee, he moved. Swift. Brutal. The paperweight descended again with terrible precision. Not on the hand. On the temple.
The sound. Oh, God, the sound. Wet. Final.
My hand flew to my mouth, but it was too late. A tiny, choked whimper escaped – a gasp of pure, animal terror. It sounded deafening in the sudden, awful silence.
Vincent froze. His head snapped up. Those grey eyes, pits of darkness, locked instantly onto the gap in the door. Onto my face. No surprise. No anger. Just terrifying, absolute stillness. The bloodied paperweight hung loosely in his hand.
Time stopped. The air thickened with the metallic stench of blood and violence. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. A mouse paralyzed under the viper's gaze. He saw me. He heard me.
Slowly, deliberately, he straightened. He didn't drop the paperweight. His eyes, holding mine captive, promised annihilation. A single drop of blood fell from the paperweight's edge, landing on the dead man's jacket with a soft thud.
A smile touched Vincent's lips, Utterly devoid of warmth. Not amusement. Predatory satisfaction. The look of a hunter finding unexpected prey in its kill zone.
"Well, well," his voice, low and smooth as silk, sliced through the thick, bloody silence. He took a step towards the door. Towards me. "Look what the cat dragged in." Another step. The coppery smell intensified, mixed with his expensive cologne. "See something you shouldn't have, wife?"