Chapter 5 First night, creepy vibes

Amara's POV

I should be sleeping.

I mean, you'd think after everything that happened today-signing a literal marriage contract like it was a Netflix subscription, trying on gowns I didn't pick, wearing diamond rings that cost more than my entire life's net worth combined, and exchanging the most awkward vows in front of two humans who didn't even clap-I'd be dead asleep by now.

But no.

Sleep? Never heard of her.

Instead, I'm standing in the middle of the biggest closet I've ever seen in my entire existence. Not a walk-in. A walk-through. This thing could have its own zip code. And I'm wrapped in nothing but confusion, fluorescent lighting, and the kind of silence that makes you wonder if you're actually alive.

Everything still has tags on them. Designer tags. I spot labels I've only ever heard about in rap songs and fashion blogs. The perfume bottles look like they belong in a palace, untouched and sparkling like they've been blessed by angels. The pajamas are arranged in rows by fabric type. Silk, satin, cotton. Even the slippers are so fluffy they look like they were imported straight from the clouds in heaven and hand-fluffed by cherubs.

Who lives like this?

Who needs this many scarves?

I grab a soft pink robe that smells like new money and wrap it around myself like I'm auditioning for a K-drama set in the French Riviera. Then I find socks. God bless whoever added socks, because this house? This house is freezing. Not just regular cold-elegantly cold. Rich people cold. Like the air has an attitude.

I crack open the bedroom door, half-expecting to see some ghost in a wedding gown gliding down the hallway, sipping wine and whispering secrets. But no. Just silence. Heavy, thick silence, interrupted only by the soft hum of distant heaters and the slow, threatening tick... tock of a grandfather clock that sounds like it's judging my every move.

What exactly have I signed up for?

I walk, soft-footed through the endless hallway, feeling like I'm trespassing in a museum. Everything is too clean. Too polished. There's not a single sign of life-no creased rugs, no misplaced shoes, no hint of chaos. It's like this house is holding its breath.

And now I'm holding mine too.

I open door after door-most of them are locked. Which is suspicious, by the way. Like, what's behind them? Secret kids? Dead ex-wives? A dungeon? I'm not saying he's a vampire, but if the cloak fits...

Finally, one door opens. And there he is.

Lucien.

The coldest man alive. Or maybe not even alive. I haven't ruled that out yet.

He's standing by the window, tall and still, his back to me, looking like one of those dramatic paintings rich people hang over their fireplaces. He's not moving. Just... existing. Like he's waiting for the moon to give him instructions.

I hover awkwardly by the door.

"Hi... sorry to interrupt your brooding or soul-harvesting or whatever you do at night."

He turns slowly, like he's been expecting me. His eyes land on me, sharp and unreadable, like he's trying to figure out if I'm real or just a trick of the shadows.

"Why are you not asleep?" he asks. No greeting. No small talk. Straight to the point.

I tug my robe tighter. "I was... cold," I say. "Also... you mentioned my sister would be moved. I just wanted to know when. Like, is that arranged already? Tomorrow? Next week? Next century?"

"Tomorrow morning," he replies, flatly.

Oh.

I nod. "Okay. Thanks for that."

I'm just about to turn when he drops a line so casually, it hits like a sucker punch.

"Don't ever try to love me."

My breath catches. "Excuse me?"

He doesn't even look at me. Just turns back to the window like he didn't just emotionally uppercut me.

"You signed a contract. And that's all it is. There's no divorce. No feelings. We survive the year, and go our separate ways. Don't get confused."

Wow. Okay. First of all-rude. Second of all-who said anything about love? I'm not out here sketching our future baby names, sir. I'm just trying not to die of frostbite in your haunted mansion.

But I nod. "Sure," I say, dryly. "No love. Got it. Super easy. Barely an inconvenience."

He doesn't reply.

I turn to leave, but my heart is pounding. Not because I want him or anything stupid like that. But because something about this whole thing-the marriage, the house, the man who stares out of windows like he's waiting for the sky to bleed-it all feels wrong.

As I walk back, I notice a door slightly ajar. It's different from the others-older, less polished. Just... off.

There's a strange stillness around it. Like it's holding a breath. Waiting.

A chill creeps up my spine. I don't know what it is, but that door doesn't feel like the rest of the house. It doesn't belong. Or maybe I don't.

My hand lifts, almost without permission. Just to push it open a little more. Just to peek.

Then, from somewhere deep inside, a small voice screams: Don't.

Every horror movie I've ever watched flashes before my eyes. This is always the moment. The curious girl. The haunted door. The regret.

I take a step back. Then another.

And I walk away.

I make it to my room, close the door gently-but firmly-then lock it. Double check. Slide a chair under the knob like some amateur ghost hunter.

Then I dive under the duvet like it's a force field.

This is insane. The mansion. The icy silence. Lucien's warning. The contract. The mystery door. The fact that I'm technically married and I don't even know what this man eats for breakfast.

I hug my pillow, whispering, "You're doing this for your sister. One year. Just one year."

But the truth?

Even as I close my eyes, something in this house is still wide awake.

Watching.

Waiting.

And I can feel it.