Chapter 1 - The Voice Behind the Lock
The silence in the dimly lit corridor of the third floor pressed against Clara’s ears like a physical weight. The air up here smelled different from the rest of Blackwater House—it was thick with the scent of dried lavender, faint rubbing alcohol, and the metallic tang of old radiator pipes.
“Who is outside?” the small voice asked again. It sounded frail, cracked from tears, yet carried a thread of sharp defiance that could only belong to an Vale.
Clara leaned her shoulder against the cold white door, careful not to press too hard against the heavy brass lock. Her palm, bandaged tightly from the crystal bird incident hours earlier, throbbed with a dull ache.
“My name is Clara,” she repeated softly, keeping her tone light, the way she used to speak to frightened stray animals in her home village. “I’m new here. I work downstairs.”
“You’re not supposed to be on this floor,” the girl whispered. “Mrs. Gable says anyone who comes up here gets thrown out into the rain. Without their shoes.”
Clara couldn’t help the small smile that touched her lips despite the knot of fear in her stomach. “Well, then I’d better be extra quiet, hadn’t I? What’s your name?”
A long pause followed. Clara heard the faint rustle of bedsheets, followed by the slow, dragging sound of metal hitting carpet—a brace or a wheelchair leg being shifted.
“Julianna,” the child said finally. “I’m nine. But my legs don't work.”
“Nice to meet you, Julianna,” Clara murmured. “Are you hungry? I caught a glimpse of the kitchens earlier. I think I saw fresh cherry tart on the counter.”
“Mrs. Gable says sugar makes my blood bad,” Julianna replied coldly, though her tone couldn't hide the wistful note beneath it. “She only brings me grey soup and cold tea. She says sick girls don't need treats.”
Clara’s heart squeezed. Grey soup? Cold tea for a child locked in a room by herself? Before she could question it further, the small girl asked the question that made Clara’s blood run cold.
“Did my father send you?” Julianna asked, her voice dropping to a frightened murmur. “Or did the nurse tell you to check if I was still breathing?”
Clara froze. If I was still breathing? What kind of house was this?
“Neither,” Clara whispered back, pressing her mouth closer to the keyhole. “I came because I heard you crying. I don't like listening to people cry alone.”
“I wasn't crying,” Julianna snapped, her voice suddenly defensive. “Vales don't cry. My father told me that before he stopped coming up here.”
Before Clara could digest the painful truth behind those words, a heavy footstep echoed from the grand staircase at the end of the hall.
The floorboards creaked.
Clara jumped up, her heart leaping into her throat. She looked down the dark corridor. A shadow moved near the banister—tall, broad-shouldered, and completely motionless.
Adrian Vale stood in the darkness, illuminated only by the faint moonlight streaming through the arched stained-glass window behind him. He wasn't wearing his formal dinner jacket anymore. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos that crept up his wrists—runes and crests that belonged to the syndicate he commanded.
“Clara,” his voice cut through the silence, low and dangerous.
Clara swallowed hard, stepping away from the locked door. “Mr. Vale. I... I apologize. I was lost.”
Adrian walked toward her, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the thick runner rug. He stopped just two feet away. He towered over her, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that made it difficult for her to draw breath.
“You were told the rules,” he said softly.
“I was,” Clara confessed, raising her chin slightly despite her trembling hands. “Mr. Gable told me twice. But I heard someone in pain. I couldn't ignore it.”
“In this house, Clara, you ignore what does not concern you if you wish to stay alive,” Adrian warned. He reached out, his thumb brushing against the white bandage wrapped around her hand. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man with such a brutal reputation. “Your hand is bleeding through the gauze.”
Clara looked down. Red spots had bloomed across the white linen. In her rush to comfort the child, she had strained her stitches.
“It’s fine,” she murmured.
“It is not fine,” Adrian replied smoothly. He turned toward the locked door, his face darkening into a mask of solemn grief. He stared at the brass knob for a long moment, as if looking through the wood at the little girl inside. “Go back to your room, Clara. If I find you up here again, I will not be so lenient.”
“She’s lonely, Mr. Vale,” Clara said boldly, ignoring the instinct that told her to run. “She’s nine years old and locked in the dark.”
May you like
Adrian’s jaw clenched. A muscle ticked beneath his sharp cheekbone. “You know nothing of what my daughter needs, girl. Go.”
Clara held his gaze for one heart-stopping second before nodding curtsily. She turned and walked down the long, shadowed hallway, feeling his heavy gaze on her back until she reached the safety of the servants' stairs.
