Chapter 3 The Mansion's Secret

Emma wandered the halls like a ghost searching for a life she couldn't remember.

Every corridor in the Blackwood estate seemed endless-lined with cold elegance: marble statues, oil paintings, chandeliers that dangled like frozen waterfalls. The deeper she went, the more claustrophobic it felt. There was no warmth, no laughter. Just silence, and the distant echo of footsteps that never seemed to belong to her.

Julian had instructed the staff to accommodate her recovery. Meals were brought on time. Her favorite teas-supposedly-were always served. A wardrobe full of designer clothes appeared in her dressing room. A nurse came twice a day to monitor her vitals. The luxury was overwhelming, but none of it made her feel safe. Or seen.

Especially not when Julian was near.

He appeared every morning like clockwork-immaculately dressed, with the same guarded expression. Dutiful. Courteous. And utterly unreadable.

Emma noticed it right away: he never touched her.

Not a brush of fingers when handing her a cup of tea. Not a guiding hand on her back when they passed in narrow halls. His eyes, however, told another story. They followed her. Tracked her like a man calculating her every move.

Sometimes she'd catch him staring when he thought she wasn't looking. His gaze would linger on her hands, her face, her throat-until their eyes met. Then it was gone, replaced by cool indifference.

She wanted to ask him, Why are you watching me like I'm going to break something? Or run? But she couldn't bring herself to speak the words aloud. Because deep down, she wondered if he had a reason to.

One afternoon, she found herself drawn to the east wing. It felt like the only part of the mansion that wasn't kept pristine. Dust coated the corners of the hall, and many of the doors were locked. But one stood slightly ajar.

Inside, she discovered a dimly lit sitting room with shelves of books, faded photographs, and a grand piano covered in a thin sheet. The room smelled like time-old paper and dried roses.

She stepped inside carefully, her fingers brushing over the edge of the piano. Her reflection stared back at her in its glossy black surface. She looked... older than she felt. Not in years, but in weariness. As if whoever she was before had already lived a lifetime of pain.

On a nearby table sat a photo frame, flipped face down.

Curious, Emma turned it over. Her breath caught.

It was her-standing beside Julian. They were on a beach, both barefoot, wind in their hair. She was laughing, her head tilted back, eyes sparkling. Julian wasn't smiling, but his hand rested possessively on her waist.

She didn't remember this. Not the dress, not the beach, not the feeling of being that free.

Suddenly, a shadow moved in the doorway.

She spun around to find Julian leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

"You're not supposed to be in here," he said quietly.

Emma swallowed. "I didn't know. The door was open."

He stepped in slowly, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the photo in her hand. "That was taken in Mallorca. Our honeymoon."

She glanced down at the image again, her fingers tightening on the frame. "We look... happy."

He walked over and gently took it from her. "We were."

"But not now."

Julian didn't answer. He replaced the photo and pulled the cover back over the piano with a practiced hand.

"Why don't you talk about it?" she asked. "About what happened between us?"

His jaw clenched. "Because memory is a powerful thing, Emma. And yours is still fractured. Some truths can be poison if taken too soon."

She took a step toward him. "Do you love me, Julian?"

He froze.

The question hung in the air like a blade.

Finally, he said, "I married you."

"That's not what I asked."

He exhaled through his nose. "Love is... complicated. It was never simple between us."

Emma's heart ached. "Then why did I feel like I had to leave? Why was I alone in that car?"

Julian met her eyes, something fierce flickering behind his calm mask. "Because you didn't trust me. You never did."

"Should I?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.

That night, Emma sat alone in the drawing room, staring out at the moonlit garden beyond the French doors. Every room in this mansion was beautiful, yet felt like a cage. Her husband wore duty like a second skin, but his emotional distance gnawed at her.

She couldn't remember the pain-but her body felt it. The way her chest tightened when he entered the room. The way her skin bristled when he stood too close. The way her stomach twisted every time he walked away without answering the questions that mattered most.

She didn't feel safe.

And more than anything, she didn't feel loved.

Later, as she lay in bed, the memory fragments began to surface-like tiny shards of glass cutting through fog. A flash of an argument. Her voice rising. His hand slamming a door. Her fingers fumbling with a suitcase. Then... headlights. Rain.

She gasped awake, drenched in sweat.

Somewhere down the hallway, she heard a door close.

Julian was still awake.

And watching.

Always watching.