Chapter 2 The Devil's Hour

Chapter Two: The Devil's Hour

The note lay on the bedside table like a warning.

The week begins at sunrise. Sleep well, Mrs. Ward.

Mrs. Ward.

The words made her stomach turn. She wasn't his. Not truly. Not ever. This was a performance. A contract. A deal signed in desperation and inked with blood.

Still, the ring on her finger felt heavier than any shackle.

Isla didn't sleep. Not really. She lay curled on top of the silk sheets, fully clothed, her body tense with every creak of the old manor's bones. The storm outside had moved further down the coast, but the sea still roared like it was mourning something.

Maybe her.

The first rays of sunlight slithered through the tall windows, lighting the ceiling in gold. Morning had come, and with it, the beginning of whatever torment Lucien Ward had planned.

She didn't bother changing clothes.

At precisely 7 a.m., there was a soft knock at the door. Isla tensed.

A voice followed-feminine, calm, too practiced to be natural. "Mrs. Ward, breakfast is ready. Mr. Ward is waiting in the East Wing dining room."

East Wing. Of course. Even the meals were strategic here.

"I'll be down in five," she called back.

"Very well."

Isla moved mechanically. She splashed her face with cold water, tied her hair back, and checked the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them bruised with fatigue, but she wouldn't let him see her break.

She was here for Noah. Not for herself. Not for Lucien.

As she stepped into the hallway, she realized something strange-the silence. No staff bustled through the corridors. No idle chatter or movement. It was like the estate had emptied itself for her arrival.

Or maybe it was always like this.

She found the dining room without help. The doors were already open, and there he was-Lucien Ward, sitting at the head of an impossibly long mahogany table, dressed in black, sipping from a porcelain cup like he owned the morning.

Because he did.

Lucien didn't look up right away. He just nodded toward the seat across from him. "Sit."

She didn't move. "Where is everyone?"

He glanced up, amused. "Gone."

Her jaw clenched. "Gone?"

"You think I'd leave my house full of strangers with you in it? I don't want distractions. For the next seven days, it's just us."

"And the ghosts," she muttered.

His smile sharpened. "Exactly."

She sat. The food was already plated-sliced fruit, eggs, warm bread, all untouched on his side.

"I don't eat breakfast," he said, catching her stare.

"I don't care," she replied.

He leaned forward slightly, fingertips touching. "Still full of fire, I see."

"Still full of threats."

Lucien's eyes narrowed. "This week is what you make it, Isla. Comply, and you'll leave with your brother's cure and a clean conscience. Resist... and I might start renegotiating the deal."

She stabbed a piece of melon with her fork. "You're disgusting."

"Not the first time I've heard that." He sipped his coffee again. "But unlike most men, I don't hide what I am."

"No," she said quietly, "you wear it like a crown."

For a moment, their gazes locked-hers burning with defiance, his unreadable. There was something frightening in his stillness. Like he didn't need to shout or move to assert dominance. His presence alone was a weapon.

"Tell me," he said suddenly, "what did Ava say about me before she died?"

Isla blinked. "What?"

Lucien leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on her. "You and she were close. She must've told you stories. Warnings. Secrets."

Isla's throat tightened. "Why? Want to know how well you performed as a lover?"

A flicker of irritation crossed his face. "I want to know if she regretted it."

"She regretted everything."

Silence stretched between them like a blade.

Lucien rose, the chair scraping quietly against the marble floor. "Come."

"Where?"

"Your first task as my wife."

The sarcasm in his voice made her skin crawl. But Isla stood and followed him anyway.

He led her through corridors she hadn't seen the night before-narrower halls with arched ceilings and oil paintings whose eyes seemed to follow her. At last, they entered a sunroom, where light filtered through stained glass windows onto an antique piano.

He gestured toward it.

"Play."

Isla frowned. "What?"

"I said play. You studied at Juilliard, didn't you?"

"That was years ago."

"You'll remember."

She hesitated, then sat. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She hadn't played since Ava's funeral. But something about this moment-the surreal quiet, the way Lucien stood behind her like a shadow-made resistance feel useless.

She pressed a key. Then another. A melody, soft and familiar, floated into the room like a ghost returning home.

Lucien listened silently, his face unreadable.

When she finished, he said, "You're still talented."

"And you're still manipulative."

He chuckled. "You're not wrong."

Isla stood abruptly. "Is this what you do now? Force women into your mansion, make them play music, pretend it's romance?"

"No," he said. "Only you."

That caught her off guard.

Before she could reply, he stepped closer, invading her space. "You think I'm a monster. That I killed Ava. That I enjoy your suffering."

Her jaw clenched.

"But the truth, Isla," he whispered, "is far worse than anything you've imagined."

She backed away. "If this is another game-"

"It's not." His tone darkened. "You'll learn soon enough."

---

Later That Day

The rest of the day passed in silence. Meals were left in her room. Lucien disappeared after the piano room incident. She explored the estate cautiously-grand libraries, a locked greenhouse, endless corridors filled with art Ava once loved.

She found a portrait of her sister in one hallway-oil painted, flawless, frozen in time. Ava in white, smiling faintly. Lucien must've commissioned it before her death.

The sight of it broke something in Isla's chest.

"I'll get through this," she whispered to herself. "Seven days. I just have to survive seven days."

---

Midnight

Isla awoke to the sound of music. A low, haunting melody drifting through the walls. Piano.

She rose from bed, slipping on a robe and following the sound. Down the stairs. Past the hall. Toward the west wing-where Lucien said no one lived.

The music grew louder.

She stopped outside a door slightly ajar.

Inside, Lucien sat at the same piano she had played earlier. But this time, the music wasn't gentle. It was brutal. Desperate. Full of rage.

He hadn't noticed her.

The moonlight caught the curve of his mouth-soft, pained, human.

And for a single moment, Isla saw not the devil, but a man grieving something he couldn't name.

Then he stopped playing.

"I know you're there."

Isla froze.

Lucien stood and turned, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, eyes shining like wet obsidian. "You're not the only one with ghosts, Isla."

She opened her mouth but said nothing.

"You want to know why I brought you here?" he asked.

"I already know."

"No," he said softly. "You only know the half of it."

He walked toward her, slow, deliberate. "Go back to bed. Tomorrow... the real game begins."

And then he shut the door.

Leaving Isla alone in the corridor, breathless and afraid-and more curious than ever.