Chapter 6 The Mansion Had Eyes

The room was... beautiful. That was the first betrayal.

Velvet drapes covered the walls. Maybe stone underneat. She couldn't tell. A window so big she could see the moon without even trying. A bed that looked like it could swallow her whole. Curtains thick enough to hide a body behind.

She didn't sit. She stood by the door like someone might slam it shut any second.

She didn't know what she was expecting-someone to drag her back out? A voice to say they changed their mind? That she wasn't good enough to even stay in a place like this? Maybe the silence itself was the real punishment.

He hadn't touched her. Not a finger. But that didn't make her feel safe. It made her feel exposed, like the walls were watching. Like the quiet held it's breath, waiting.

Anaya finally dropped her bag. It wasn't even hers. Just a cheap duffel someone handed her after the auction, filled with basics she hadn't even picked out.

"Nothing here belongs to me," she whispered, barely loud enough for the room to hear.

Her phone was gone. They took it after the chapel.

She didn't cry. Again. She was saving that for later.

Her coat was still on, long and dark, creased from hours of sitting, waiting, being moved around like she didn't have a say. The collar scratched at her neck, but she didn't take it off. It felt like armor, the last thing that still belonged to her.

She stood there for another minute. Maybe more. The room didn't shift, didn't breathe with her. It just watched. Quiet, patient. Like it knew exactly what she was.

It made her skin itch. Not fear exactly. More like waiting for thunder you know it's coming.

She rubbed her hands together inside the coat sleeves, fighting off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was still quiet. Not the kind that brought peace, but the kind that made her feel she was about to be called out. Like the quiet was a trap waiting to snap closed the moment she let herself relax.

She walked a few steps in, but didn't go far. Just enough to see the ceiling. It was tall. Almost too tall.

This wasn't comfort.

It was performance.

Even the gold trim along the corners felt too perfect. Like something meant to impress, or intimidate. Maybe both.

She stayed standing. Wrapped in her coat. Her feet ached, but sitting felt too vulnerable, too permanent. The room hadn't accepted her yet. Maybe it never would.

When a knock came, she froze. She forgot how to breathe for a second. She didn't know who she was expecting. But the voice wasn't a man's voice. It wasn't Bastian Ferretti.

The woman walked in like she owned the silence. Maybe late thirties. Hard face. Stiff posture. She didn't smile. Didn't blink much either. Her uniform was black and sharp, swallowing her figure so she almost faded into the room. Her hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful. And her expression, blank. Not cold. Just... hard to read. Like nothing could get in or out.

"I'm Mira. Housekeeper."

Anaya gave a small nod-it was one of the only things she still had control over.

Mira shut the door with a soft click, her voice just as clipped as her movements.

"The rules," she began. "You stay ninety days. You don't ask questions. You don't lock your door. You don't go downstairs after 10PM. You don't go near the West Wing ever."

Anaya blinked. "What happens if I do?"

Mira's eyes didn't move.

"Don't."

That was it. Then she handed her a tray of food. Still warm. Chicken. Rice. Water. No silverware. Just plastic cutlery, like she might try to stab someone if given a real fork.

Maybe she would. Not to hurt anyone. Just to feel like she still had hands, not chains.

"Eat. Shower. Sleep. You start chores in the morning."

"Chores?" she asked, voice a bit shocked.

But Mira was already walking out.

"What kind of chores?" Anaya tried again, but Mira didn't even look back.

The door clicked behind her like a sentence being finished.

***

He watched the hidden room feed.

She hadn't eaten yet. The trays sat untouched on the table, the food growing colder with each passing hour. She hadn't touched the bed either.

That window had been there for over a century. Tall, arched, and narrow. The velvet curtains were deep red, always drawn halfway. Not just to block light, but to keep things in. The same velvet covered the walls too. Thick and heavy. Like the house didn't want sound to move.

But now she stood in front of it, framed like she belonged to the house. Like the damn thing had been waiting for her. Arms crossed and shoulders tight. Still in that coat, as if warmth wasn't something she trusted anymore.

That wasn't supposed to happen. People didn't belong in this house. They survived it.

He hadn't meant to watch this long, but something about the way she stood there made it hard to look away.

Bastian didn't like watching people. He never had. He didn't enjoy this part of the house. He didn't like the still of the monitors, or the way the screens glowed back to him like it was quietly accusing him. It didn't like what it made him feel, this constant tug between control and something that looked too much like guilt. But he watched anyway. Because it wasn't about curiosity either. It wasn't about power, or need, or dominance. He wasn't that kind of man. Or at least, he didn't want to believe he was.

This was about her, about the past, and the one he never managed to burry.

The woman he lost had once stood just like that. Same crossed arms. Same silence. Looking out the same window in that same room. Wearing a dress that wasn't hers, one someone else had chosen for her. She hadn't spoken much either. Her eyes had been heavy with things she couldn't say, and her silence had been louder than any scream.

It was cruel, too cruel. Life had a strange way of repeating itself. A long memory. And now here she was, not the same woman, not really, but something in her reminded him too much. And memories like that never came without consequences.

His fingers hovered near the edge of the monitor, not ready to let go. Just one more minute, he told himself. Just one more second of control.

He turned the screen off.

The rules were clear. She obeys. She walks. She doesn't ask. She doesn't wander. That was how it worked. Everyone knew that. Even she would know that soon enough. It was a system. Simple, strict. Uncomplicated.

But if she breaks the rules-

No. He didn't want blood on this one. Not this time. Not again. If he could help it, he would keep this one clean. Unbroken. Unmarked. But the house had its own way of swallowing people whole, especially the ones who didn't listen. And if she went near the library-

Bastian clenched his jaw.

No one ever should.

***

At 2:17 a.m, she couldn't sleep. The quiet pressed down on her ears.

She walked slowly across the room with bare feet, quiet and careful. The soft rug felt warm under her toes, almost like a hug. And for some reason, that made her feel even worse.

She stepped into the hallway. The soft rug stopped, and now her feet touched old wood. It felt cold under her. The air was cooler here. She kept walking, even though she didn't really want to. Every part of this hallway felt wrong. Like the house didn't want her here. The floor made small sounds under her with every step.

The paintings on the wall seemed to watch her. Their eyes too real in the dark, as if they were about to speak. But she didn't stop. She needed to breathe. Needed to learn the shape of this place, this cage she was stuck in.

She found herself standing in front of a door.

The West Wing.

"What are you hiding in there?" she muttered to the silence.

It had a gold knob and no lock. The hallway smelled old. Like wood and metal.

Something on her chest tightened. Her heart beat faster. Even so, her hands stayed on the knob a second too long.

But not tonight. She wouldn't poke the lion just yet.

She walked back. Closed her door. Crawled into bed with her clothes still on.

"Not now," she whispered, clutching the blanket. "Don't fall apart yet."

But it was too late. Her chest already felt too full and too heavy.

She let the tears come, not from fear, but from the emptiness growing under her ribs.

That girl in the chapel, the one who believed in rings and soft forever promises, she was gone. And whoever she was now... she hadn't met her yet.

"I hope she's stronger," she whispered into the pillow.