CHAPTER SEVEN
The mansion’s winding corridors fell silent as Caspian prowled them long past midnight, his every footstep an echo of pent-up frustration. Lampades d’élégance cast half-shadows on polished floors, exposing lines chiselled under his eyes as records of another sleepless night. He would not relent to fatigue, pushed forward by thorny memories he could not shake. Occasionally, a tired servant bowed and fled when his careful glare suggested he wanted solitude.
He halted before a high window overlooking the garden, which was moonlit, shoulders stiff, hands flexing at his sides. The quiet magnified his roiling mind. For months, insomnia tormented him with remembrances of a gentle devotion Celeste had bestowed — and the acrimonious discovery that followed when she disappeared. Just having her under his roof revived feelings he tried to bury. Every time he caught a glimpse of her floating through one of these opulent halls, rage flared at his own impossible desire. He attempted to suppress it, but the impulse lingered on him like a constant reverberation.
Celeste appeared around the corner, bearing a rickety shawl against her nightgown. She stopped, surprised to see him awake. Their eyes converged in a moment heavy with ancient hurt and unexpressed longing. His jaw clenched; he tore his gaze away, not wanting her to read the flicker of want that ignited whenever she came close. She paused, her voice lowered. “You’re up still,” she said quietly. “Is everything—”
“I’m fine,” he barked, tension bitter in his tone. “Mind your own business.” That touch of chill prickled, but Celeste gamely held her ground, remembering better eras when he used to turn to her for comfort. She was not sure if the man she once knew was lurking behind this unyielding facade.
He passed her, brisk footsteps, heartbeat pulsing with mixed emotion. Knowing that she needed to either let him go or bring him to confront their shared past, she salt-and-peppered her way through the series, left in the hallway. Pride battled compassion in her heart. Could she risk providing comfort only to have it hurled back in her face? But as she watched him drift away, she felt how much he was suffering. The silence of the corridor was suffocating, the hush thick with the tensions they would not name.
Celeste woke before dawn, roused by an insubstantial sense of disquiet. Soft light seeped through her bedroom curtains, highlighting a sealed envelope tucked under the doorframe. A shiver ran down her skin. She knelt, picking it up, reading the jagged scrawl of the address. With growing dread, she ripped it open and read:
Leave if you value your life.
Her heart lurched. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air, amplifying her racing thoughts. She peered into the corners, half-expecting to see a watcher hidden in the shadows there, but emptiness and muffled silence were all the reply. Gasping for breath, she felt a flicker of indignation crowd out the immediate fear. Who thought they could scare her away with a couple of scrawled words?
She looked to the door, remembering Soren’s past coercion of her choices, Talia’s condescension still crackling in the air of the mansion, and how some unknown enemy might be waiting at the edge of her reach. Adrenaline sparked. Not walking away in defeat, not letting them watch her stumble. She crumpled the note in her fist and threw it on the small dressing table. Her skin prickled with the knowledge that, no matter the mansion’s ornate gates and watchful staff, no place here was ever quite safe.
She blinked through a rush of stale memories: the day she was forced out of Caspian, the pain of the breakup. Was this Soren eager to reprieve his victory in driving her out? Her lips were pressed together, and her hands were shaking with adrenaline. But even if all of the Hayes household lined up opposite her, she had to stay alert.
A light knock at the door startled her. The housekeeper had called to say breakfast was ready. Celeste coughed, swallowing her fear. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice steadier than it felt. She waited for footsteps to fade before going back for the crumpled warning.” After one last look at the menacing lines, some fresh sense of defiance burned in her. They would not push and shove her away that easily.
She tucked the note into her bedside drawer, promising to keep it to herself, at least temporarily. If she faced Caspian, he would probably complain that it was just another attempt to earn sympathy. Finally resolved, she straightened her nightgown as she conjured up the best footnotes for the morning to come. A powdery white dust lay underfoot, crackling in protest as she trudged down the rain-slicked corridor into the mouth of the hallway; the tension thick here like a warm breeze on a cool day, a reminder that the next moment spent here could herald new danger.
Well, on the morning of the trial, Celeste streaked through a flooded, sunlight corridor, her eyes telephone poles of fury. The crumpled, foreboding note lay in her hand. She found Caspian in the study, leaning over a wide mahogany desk cluttered with business files. His shoulders were taut, and thin shadows showed in his eyes, evidence of yet another night spent without sleep. She walked in without knocking and closed the door to keep curious staff members out.
“I found this,” she said sharply, slapping the note onto his paperwork. He stopped, levelling a cool gaze at her. “And you think it’s me doing it?” His voice was a cut of sarcasm. She stiffened. “No, but someone in this house wants me dead — perhaps your father, perhaps Talia, or perhaps one of their lackeys.” Her pulse burned an erratic mix of fear and indignation.
Brow furrowed, he looked at the paper but quickly hid any concern. “Is this a performance?” he asked. “A sob story to get public sympathy?” His words landed like a slap. She clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing. “Would I actually risk my life for a stage show? You know better. Soren has a history of extremes, as you so conveniently forget?”
His jaw went tight, long years of unresolved betrayal brimming behind his eyes. “We both know who’s good at disappearing when the going gets tough,” he snapped back, alluding to her long-ago departure. Her nails dug into her palm as she battled an impulse toward hurt. “That’s cruel,” she told him, her voice shaking. “I had to leave because Soren forced me out.”
Caspian got up from the desk, his broad frame towering over her. Shadows from the tall window cast across his face, accentuating his vexation. “He’s not the only one who has motives,” he shot back. “You earn sympathy; you strengthen your role as my damaged wife. The press eats that narrative alive.” She inhaled, heart pounding. “I have nothing to gain by fear,” she said. “This is real, and pretending it’s not won’t make it go away.”
Talia’s quiet footsteps stopped at the threshold. She sensed the tension, catching a glimpse of the note. For a moment, empathy flashed across her face. Celeste noticed, but she wouldn’t let a little kindness colour the truth. Talia resumed her usual aloof posture: arms crossed. Caspian breathed out, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before looking away. “I have responsibilities to attend to,” he grumbled. “Do what you need to do, but stay in your lane.”
Celeste remained standing there, clutching the crumpled threat, convinced the air in the mansion had simply grown thicker.