Chapter 3 Beneath the Surface

The black envelope lay on the floor, the faint smell of leather and ink lingering in the air as Xochi stared at it. Her breath hitched, a strange feeling of unease spreading through her chest. She hadn't heard anyone leave, and yet the knock was unmistakable.

She bent down, fingers trembling, and picked up the envelope. Its weight felt wrong in her hands-too heavy for its size, like it contained something that would change everything.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned it over, but there was nothing more than a simple, bold line scrawled across the front:

You don't belong here.

Xochi's fingers tightened around the envelope. The words sent a chill down her spine. They weren't a warning-they were a command. And despite herself, she felt a knot of dread form in her stomach.

Who would send this? Was it Chris? Had he already started testing her?

She could hear her breath, shallow and quick, as she stood there in the center of the room. The mansion was silent, but it wasn't the peaceful silence she had hoped for. It was oppressive, like the walls were closing in on her, and the air thick with tension.

Unsealing the envelope, she slid out the single piece of paper inside. Her eyes scanned the elegant handwriting, barely able to make sense of the unfamiliar words at first. When she did, the message was clear:

Do not trust him. He will ruin you.

Xochi's mind raced. The ink seemed to burn into her eyes, the truth of it sinking in deeper with each word she read. It could have been anyone. Anyone in this cold mansion. But there was only one person whose actions might carry such weight-Chris Moreau.

Her fingers clutched the note tighter, but the more she thought about it, the more confused she became. Chris had been cold, calculating-sure-but he hadn't exactly been unkind. Had he? He had given her the basics-food, shelter, a purpose, even if it wasn't one she wanted. But could it really be that simple? Was that all he was? A man who didn't care at all, who kept her around for reasons she couldn't understand?

A flicker of doubt clouded her mind, but she quickly shook it off. She couldn't trust this note. It could be a trick, designed to get inside her head. But what if it wasn't? What if the message was real?

Her fingers, still holding the note, began to tremble. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to steady herself. A soft tap came from the door again, making her heart skip.

Not again.

She quickly shoved the note into her pocket, trying to act natural, as if her heart wasn't thundering in her chest. The door swung open before she could reach it.

Madame Rousseau stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Her cold gaze swept over Xochi, taking in her disheveled state, the hint of unease in her eyes. She raised a brow, but didn't comment.

"Dinner is served," she said, her tone indifferent, as if this was nothing more than an ordinary request.

Xochi nodded absently, trying to push the unease back into the corners of her mind. She could worry about the note later.

For now, she needed to play the part.

Madame Rousseau didn't wait for her response. She simply turned and walked down the hallway. Xochi followed quickly, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent house.

They passed through the large, empty halls again, the quietness of the place almost suffocating. The silence made everything feel even more isolating, more unreal. There were no other sounds-no servants bustling around, no laughter or voices. Only the soft echo of her steps, and the cold, unfeeling walls that surrounded her.

They entered a large dining room, the table set with white linens, silver cutlery, and crystal glasses. The chairs were arranged neatly, like a scene from a perfect, detached portrait. But something felt off.

Xochi's breath caught in her throat when she saw Chris sitting at the head of the table. His eyes, cold and unyielding, flicked up from the plate in front of him, acknowledging her presence.

"You're late," he said, his voice as steady and unbothered as ever.

Xochi's mouth went dry. "I didn't realize I was on a schedule."

Chris's lips curled into the faintest of smiles, but it was devoid of warmth. "You're not," he replied coolly. "But I like to keep things punctual."

She nodded, then took the seat across from him. Madame Rousseau remained standing, watching from the doorway, an ever-present figure who seemed to exist only to ensure everything proceeded exactly as it should.

Xochi tried to ignore the tension in the room, but it was impossible. The walls seemed to close in as Chris began eating, his motions measured, controlled. There was nothing casual about the way he moved. Everything about him screamed precision.

"What do you expect from me?" she asked suddenly, the question escaping her before she could stop it.

Chris paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. His gaze shifted from his plate to her eyes, locking onto her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Do you really want to know?" His voice was low, almost amused. But there was something else in it-something calculating, as if he were sizing her up.

Xochi couldn't look away. "I have to know."

His lips parted, but before he could answer, the door creaked open again. Xochi's heart skipped-another knock. Another interruption.

But this time, the person who entered wasn't Madame Rousseau. It was a man, tall and imposing, with a look that seemed out of place in the elegant dining room. He wore a black coat and had a scar running down his cheek, his eyes hard and unreadable.

Xochi stiffened, her pulse quickening. Chris didn't acknowledge the new arrival, but his eyes flickered briefly toward him.

The stranger stopped just inside the door and nodded toward Xochi. "Madame Moreau," he said, his voice rough.

The words sent a jolt through her system, cold and sharp.

Madame Moreau.

The name sounded final, like a seal being placed on her fate.

Xochi's world moved, the room growing smaller with every breath. She hadn't even noticed the slow realization creeping in.

She wasn't just married to Chris Moreau. She was now a Moreau herself.

And something told her that her life, as she knew it, had just begun to unravel.

The man's presence was almost suffocating. Chris didn't move, didn't speak, but his eyes never left Xochi. The stranger's gaze, too, lingered, calculating. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. All she could do was wait for the storm she could feel.