Chapter 5 Dinner With The Devil

Chapter 5 Dinner with the devil

The sun barely filtered through the thick velvet curtains when Isla woke. Her body ached from the tension of the night before, every muscle knotted from unease and the weight of choices she couldn't undo. She hadn't meant to fall asleep-but exhaustion was a thief, stealing her vigilance.

The note on the nightstand was gone. In its place stood a covered tray. Breakfast. Silver dome, black linen napkin, and a glass of orange juice too perfect to be real. She stared at it for a long time, half expecting it to explode or deliver a hidden message. But nothing happened. Just stillness and that same oppressive silence the mansion wore like a second skin.

She didn't touch the food.

Instead, she rose, pulling on a thick robe and stepping into slippers that had been placed precisely at her bedside. The realization made her stomach churn-someone had entered while she slept. She hadn't heard a sound.

She left the room.

The hall outside was dim, the lighting low and golden, casting long shadows against the walls adorned with old portraits. She walked, aimless at first, trying to map out the estate in her mind. Every door looked like a trap. Every silence held breath.

She turned a corner and nearly slammed into him.

Lucien.

Dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks, holding a steaming mug of coffee, he looked as if he hadn't slept. Dark circles under his eyes, but alert. Composed. Dangerous.

"Morning, Mrs. Ward," he said smoothly, taking a slow sip. "Sleep well?"

Isla swallowed hard. "I'm not playing house with you, Lucien."

He chuckled, stepping aside to let her pass. "You're free to explore. Just... don't open locked doors. Some things in this house bite."

She didn't reply. Didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, she kept walking, descending the grand staircase and entering what looked like a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. A massive fireplace. A sitting area with velvet couches that looked untouched.

Lucien followed her in.

"Curious?"

She ignored him, running her fingers along the spines of old books. Some were in Latin. Some in languages she didn't recognize.

He sat on the edge of a couch, his gaze tracking her like a predator studying its prey.

"This estate has been in my family for generations," he said. "Built during wars. Reinforced during darker times. Ava used to say it had a soul."

"Don't talk about her."

Lucien tilted his head. "Why? Because it hurts? Or because you're scared of what she knew?"

Isla turned sharply. "What did you do to her?"

His expression didn't change. "I gave her everything. And she broke it."

"You think that excuses her death?"

"I think," Lucien stood, slowly walking toward her, "you should stop asking questions you don't want the answers to."

She backed away. Just a step.

He noticed. Smiled.

"The week's only just begun, Isla. Don't spend it screaming into locked rooms."

With that, he left. His footsteps were soundless. A ghost fading into the walls.

-

Later that day, she found herself in the garden.

It was massive-stone paths weaving through rose bushes, black lilies, nightshade. Beautiful in a deadly sort of way. There were statues, old and crumbling, of angels and beasts. Some were missing heads. Others had words carved into their chests in languages she didn't understand.

She sat on a wrought-iron bench near a fountain that no longer worked.

The silence was different here. Softer. Almost kind.

She pulled out her sketchbook from the pocket of her robe-a habit she'd picked up after her sister died. Drawing helped. Gave her control over something. Even if it was just lines on paper.

She didn't realize how long she was there until a voice broke the air.

"You draw?"

Lucien again. Closer this time. He leaned against a tree, watching her like she was some exotic creature.

"It passes the time," she said, not looking up.

"May I?"

He was beside her before she could say no.

He took the sketchbook from her hands. Flipped through it. Said nothing for a long time.

Then, softly: "You captured her well. Ava."

Isla's throat tightened. "I drew her from memory."

Lucien closed the book. Gave it back.

"I'm not your enemy, Isla."

She laughed-dry and bitter. "You held my brother's life hostage. You dragged me here like some mafia king. You are absolutely my enemy."

"If I'd meant you harm, you'd already be dead."

She stood. "Then maybe you should finish the job."

Lucien grabbed her wrist. Not hard. But enough.

Their eyes met. For a moment, everything fell away-the garden, the silence, the storm brewing behind the estate's walls.

"You don't get to die until you know the truth," he said.

And then he walked away.

-

That night, dinner was silent.

A long table. Two seats. Candelabras lit with real flames.

She didn't speak. Neither did he.

They ate. Forks clicking against porcelain. No music. No staff. Just two people pretending not to be trapped.

Halfway through the meal, Lucien finally said, "Tomorrow, I'll show you her room."

Isla's hand froze mid-bite. "Ava's?"

He nodded. "It's exactly as she left it."

"Why? Why would you keep it that way?"

Lucien stared into his wine glass. "Because some ghosts deserve a home."

-

Midnight came like a scream.

Isla woke to a sound-something scraping against her door.

She sat up, heart pounding. Slipped out of bed. Opened the door.

Nothing.

The hall was empty.

But something moved in the shadows.

She followed it.

Barefoot, silent. Down the hall, past the portraits, through a narrow door she hadn't noticed before.

Stone steps led downward. Into darkness.

She should have turned back. But something pulled her.

The basement was colder. Damp. The walls were lined with old wine racks. Chains hung from one of the beams. And in the center of the room-

A painting.

Massive. Covered in a white sheet.

She pulled it off.

It was Ava.

Nude. Curled on a velvet chaise. Eyes closed. Peaceful.

Painted by Lucien.

The signature in the corner. The date-two weeks before her death.

Isla backed away.

A voice behind her: "She said it would be my masterpiece."

Lucien.

He stepped into the light. Eyes shadowed. "I told her it wasn't finished. She said it would be-soon."

Isla's breath caught. "You loved her."

Lucien didn't answer.

Instead, he reached out, brushing her hair from her face.

"And now I have you."

Isla slapped his hand away. "I'm not her."

"No," he said. "But you are the key."

She stared at him. "To what?"

Lucien smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"To everything that comes next.