Chapter 2

The foyer stretched endlessly before her, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows, its vastness swallowing the sound of her hesitant footsteps.

Her husband had already vanished, his tall form slipping soundlessly into the darkened corridors without a single word or backward glance.

She stood alone.

For a moment, the silence pressed so heavily against her chest that she could hardly breathe. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged—a man of advanced age, his spine straight despite the weight of years, his face stern yet not unkind.

His black attire blended seamlessly with the gloom, the faint gleam of a pocket watch glinting in the candlelight.

“Welcome, madam,” he said, bowing slightly, his voice deep and measured.

“I am Aldric, the butler of Dreadborne Mansion, I am here to see to your comfort… and to explain you the rules by which you must abide.”

Rules.

The word fell like a chain clinking around her wrists.

He gestured for her to follow him, his footsteps echoing softly on the marble as he guided her down the long corridor. The air grew colder with every step, as if the manor itself disapproved of her presence.

“You must understand,” Aldric began, his tone carefully void of judgment, “His Grace values solitude above all else. There are parts of this house you may not enter—the west wing most of all. That is His Grace’s private domain. You are not permitted to step inside, nor are you to approach his chambers under any circumstance.”

Her chest tightened. She nodded mutely, the words clawing at her heart.

“You will not address him unless spoken to, nor seek his company. His Grace… prefers distance.” Aldric’s gaze flicked briefly to her face before settling forward again.

“All your meals will be brought to your room. Should you wish to leave your quarters or walk the gardens, you must inform your maid. She will ensure that your paths do not cross. It is… imperative that His Grace does not see you unexpectedly.”

The words struck like a physical blow.

‘He doesn’t want to see me. He cannot bear it. He hates me so much that my very presence would be an offense to him.’

Her throat ached, but she remained silent, her fingers digging into the folds of her gown to keep herself from trembling.

As if sensing her unspoken turmoil, Aldric’s expression softened—barely, fleetingly.

“These are not cruelties, my lady,” he murmured.

“Merely necessities. Life will be easier if you learn to live by them.”

Easier. For whom? she wanted to ask.

For me? Or for the man who could not stomach the sight of the wife he was forced to claim?

But no words came.

Aldric pushed open a heavy door, revealing a long gallery where oil paintings loomed upon the walls. Stern men and cold-eyed women gazed down at her, their gilded frames dulled by dust and age. “This,” he said with a slight sweep of his hand, “is the east wing. It shall be yours. You may use the library, the music room, and the rose courtyard. Your chambers are prepared at the far end of this hall.”

She followed him through room after room—each grander, colder than the last. Chandeliers dripped with crystals, catching the candlelight like frozen tears. Heavy drapes choked the windows, letting in only fragments of the moonlight.

Everything was lavish, but nothing felt alive. The mansion was not a home. It was a mausoleum.

And she was the newest ghost to haunt its halls.

When at last they reached her chambers, Aldric paused.

“If you require anything, summon your maid. I am always at your service as well. But remember…” His gaze sharpened, solemn.

“Do not disobey His Grace’s wishes. It will not end well.”

With that, he bowed and withdrew, his footsteps fading into the endless dark.

Left alone, she sank onto the edge of the grand four-poster bed.

The silk sheets and velvet cushions offered no comfort. She pressed a trembling hand over her chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heart.

He despised her. He had not touched her, had not kissed her, had not even spoken a word. And now, she was forbidden from even being seen by him.

It was not marriage. It was exile within the walls of her own cage.

She sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the golden band upon her finger, its cold weight mocking her. Every word Aldric had spoken pressed against her like a stone wall, sealing her into silence, into invisibility.

Her husband hated her. Or worse—perhaps he didn’t feel anything at all.

The thought hollowed her chest, but as the silence thickened around her, another voice began to whisper—one she had not heard since before the wedding, one that still belonged to herself.

You cannot crumble now.

Her hand clenched into a fist atop her gown, nails biting into her palm. She had walked into this house already condemned, already stripped of choice. But if this place was to be her prison, then she would not allow it to break her so easily.

She stood, her legs unsteady beneath the weight of the day, and crossed to the mirror that loomed above the fireplace. A pale reflection stared back at her—eyes wide, skin drained of warmth, lips pressed into a thin, fragile line. For a moment she hardly recognized herself.

But then she forced her chin higher.

“They will not see me wilt,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice trembling but defiant.

“Not him. Not Aldric. Not this house.”

The echo of her words was swallowed quickly by the vast chamber, but something steadied inside her. She was more than a bride bound by silence. She had survived a lifetime of being told what to do, who to become. She would survive this too.

If he despised her, then let him despise her. She would not bend beneath his hatred.

Her gaze lingered on the door, on the endless darkness of the corridor beyond. Rules wrapped around her like shackles, but she would learn them, wear them like armor. She would not give her husband the satisfaction of breaking her spirit.

With a long breath, she returned to the bed and pulled the heavy curtains around her, shutting out the watching eyes of the portraits and the oppressive weight of the house.

The night pressed close, and though dread still coiled in her chest, determination flared beneath it, small but stubborn.

This was not freedom.

This was not love.

But she would endure. And one day, she vowed, she would learn why her husband hid behind his silence—and whether the chains binding her here were as unbreakable as they seemed.

* * *

The chamber was too vast to feel safe. The ceiling arched so high above her that shadows pooled in its corners, and the heavy curtains swallowed the moonlight whole, leaving only the trembling glow of a single candelabra by her bedside.

She had thought the silence of the cathedral unbearable, but here, silence was alive. It breathed. It shifted. Every creak of the old wood, every sigh of the wind against the shutters pressed against her ears until her heart pounded louder than the stillness.

She lay stiffly against the velvet pillows, the scent of aged fabric and dust clinging to her. The bed was grand, far grander than anything she had ever known, yet it felt like a coffin with its tall posts and suffocating drapes.

Sleep would not come to her.

Somewhere in the distance, a door groaned open.

She froze, her breath caught in her throat. The sound was faint, but in the stillness it was deafening. Her eyes darted to the chamber door, watching the strip of darkness beneath it as though it might shift, as though someone might be standing just beyond.

Minutes stretched. Nothing came.

She forced herself to breathe, though the air seemed thicker than before. Perhaps it had been only the house, old and weary. Aldric had warned her—the manor was not welcoming.

And yet… she felt it.

The weight of eyes.

A prickling ran down her spine, as if unseen hands traced her skin. She turned her face toward the curtained window, telling herself it was nothing, only her mind betraying her after a day of shocks. But her pulse did not slow.

It was not imagination. She knew it in her bones. Someone was near.

Her gaze slid back to the door, and for a fleeting second she thought she saw the faintest flicker of movement beneath it—a shadow shifting, then gone. Her breath stilled. The silence pressed harder, heavier, until she had to clutch the sheets to keep her hands from trembling.

Why did she feel like she was not alone?

Slowly, she closed her eyes, though her lashes trembled against her cheeks. If someone was there, they did not enter. If someone watched, they made no sound. Yet the feeling of being seen lingered, wrapping around her like invisible chains.

At last, exhaustion won against her fear. Her breathing evened, her grip on the sheets loosened. Still, even as sleep pulled her under, she did not feel at peace.

For in the endless halls of Dreadborne Mansion, she was not alone.

And though she could not know it yet, her every step, her every breath, was already being claimed in silence.

* * *