Chapter 5: The Warning

The white dress zipped up the back with a soft hiss. It fit perfectly, hugging my waist and flaring out just above my knees.

I stared at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror inside the massive closet. The girl staring back didn't look like Elara Vance anymore. The denim and messy hair were gone. This girl looked polished, expensive, and terrified. I looked like a porcelain doll ready to be placed on a shelf.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands, and checked the clock. Eighteen minutes had passed. I had two minutes left.

I didn't want to find out what the punishment for being late was.

I grabbed the door handle, my palms sweating, and stepped out into the hallway. The house was silent. Disturbingly silent. My heels clicked against the black marble floor, the sound echoing off the high walls like gunshots.

I navigated the long, twisting corridor, following the faint smell of dark roast coffee. It led me to a grand double staircase. I walked down, my hand gripping the cold railing, feeling tiny in this massive, empty castle.

At the bottom of the stairs, to the left, I found the dining room.

It was a long room with a table big enough to seat twenty people. But there was only one place set at the head of the table, and one to its right.

Damien wasn't there yet.

Instead, an older woman stood by the window. She wore a stiff black uniform and had grey hair pulled back into a bun so tight it pulled at her skin. She was arranging red roses in a vase.

She turned as I entered. Her face was stone cold. No smile. No warmth.

"You are on time," she said flatly. She checked a silver pocket watch. "Barely."

"Good morning," I said, trying to be polite. "I'm Elara."

"I know who you are," she clipped. She walked over to the table and adjusted a fork by a millimeter. "I am Mrs. Graves. I run this household. You will address me as such."

"Okay... Mrs. Graves," I stammered. "Do you know where Dami— I mean, Mr. Blackwood is?"

"The Master is on a call. He will be down in two minutes."

She pulled out the chair to the right of the head of the table. "Sit."

I sat down. The room felt freezing. I wrapped my arms around myself. "Is it always this cold in here?"

Mrs. Graves poured water into my crystal glass. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"The cold is the least of your worries, child."

I froze, looking up at her. "What do you mean?"

She glanced at the door to make sure we were alone, then looked back at me with eyes that held a flicker of pity.

"You aren't the first woman he's brought here," she said quietly.

My heart skipped a beat. "I'm not?"

"No. There was another. About three years ago." Mrs. Graves straightened a napkin, her face returning to that stone mask. "She was pretty too. Feisty. thought she could change him."

"What happened to her?" I whispered, gripping the edge of the table.

Mrs. Graves stopped moving. She looked me dead in the eye.

"She broke the rules. And then... she disappeared."

A chill went down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "Disappeared? Did she leave?"

"No one leaves Blackwood Manor, Mrs. Blackwood," she hissed. "They are either kept... or they are removed."

Before I could ask what "removed" meant, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Mrs. Graves immediately stepped back, clasping her hands behind her back, her face blank.

"Good morning, my love," Damien’s voice boomed as he strode into the room.

He looked powerful, energized, and completely unaware of the terrifying conversation I just had. He walked up to my chair, placed a hand on my shoulder, and kissed the top of my head.

His grip on my shoulder was tight.

"I hope Mrs. Graves is taking good care of you?" he asked, looking at the housekeeper.

I looked at Mrs. Graves. She stared straight ahead.

"Yes," I lied, my voice trembling.

Damien smiled, sat at the head of the table, and unfolded his napkin.

"Excellent. Let's eat."

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