First message
She’s stammering again — something about the wine being mislabeled, as if that absolves her of wasting my time. I don’t raise my voice. I never do. Control is most effective when it’s quiet. I let my fingers rest against the banister, the wood cool beneath my skin, and tilt my head just enough to let her know I’m not angry — I’m disappointed. That always cuts deeper. “You’re not listening,” I say, and she shrinks, which pleases me more than it should. And then — I hear it.
The front gates. The faint groan of metal and gravel under tires. A door opening, delicate, almost unsure. My heart stills. I don’t need to look. I know it’s you.
Your name itself is a shiver I swallow. The air in the manor shifts — like the house itself has paused to inhale. I taste it, the return of something bright and untouchable. The servant is still speaking, her voice like a mosquito in my ear. I don’t hear a word. I’m already walking toward the front hall. Calm. Composed. And suddenly very, very awake.