Eliana's body froze as the closet door creaked open behind her.
Not quickly. Slowly, deliberately. As if someone or something wanted her to notice.
Her first instinct was to run. But she didn't.
She turned.
The darkness inside the walk-in closet looked deeper than it should've been. It wasn't just a storage space—it felt like an entrance to something else. The hanging gowns—black, violet, wine-red—swayed though the air in the room was still.
Eliana walked to the threshold. Her reflection caught briefly in the broken mirror, fractured in a way that made her look like someone else.
She stepped into the closet.
At the very back, barely visible beneath the hem of an old wedding gown, she saw a floorboard pulled slightly up. Her pulse ticked faster.
She knelt and peeled back the loose board.
A tin box sat in the cavity. She lifted it out carefully, brushed the dust from its lid, and opened it.
Inside were a handful of black-and-white photographs. Letters. A velvet choker stained dark at the clasp. But what made her stomach drop wasn't any of those.
It was the list.
On a folded page of parchment, twelve names were handwritten. Eleven were crossed out.
The only one that wasn't?
Eliana Rowe.
A noise behind her—a sharp knock against the doorframe.
She turned.
Adrien stood there, jaw clenched. "You shouldn't have found that."
"You knew?" she snapped, stepping forward. "You knew I was… what, next?"
His silence said enough.
"What is this, Adrien?" Her voice trembled. "Is this a game your family plays? A sacrifice? A ritual? What am I supposed to be to you?"
Adrien looked at her like he couldn't find the right lie fast enough.
So she turned away from him—and ran.
—
Eliana didn't stop until she was at the east wing—the part of the house no one used anymore.
She had passed the cold ballroom, the portrait gallery, and reached the corridor with the sealed wooden door—the one Adrien had told her never to open.
But tonight, her fear of the unknown was nothing compared to the fury inside her.
She grabbed the rusted key from a hook beneath the sconce and shoved it into the lock. The door moaned open.
The scent hit her first: mildew, age, and something else. Coppery. Like dried blood.
The room beyond had no windows. Just rows of trunks and sealed crates. And on the far wall, a tapestry sagging beneath time's weight.
Eliana lifted the edge of the fabric—and gasped.
Behind it was another door.
No keyhole. No handle.
Etched into the wood in a delicate scrawl:
"She who opens this, loses everything."
And yet… her hand moved. Pressed against the carvings.
There was a low click, and the door gave way.
Behind it was a chamber. Lit with candles that flickered to life as she stepped inside.
At the center, a chair. Chained.
Bloodstained cuffs.
Eliana's knees buckled.
The whispers came then—soft at first. Dozens of voices. Names. Screams. Begging.
She clutched her ears, stumbled back—right into Adrien's arms.
"You shouldn't be here," he said hoarsely. "This room isn't meant for the living."
"What is this place?" she demanded. "Why are there chains? What the hell have you people done?"
Adrien's hands gripped her arms, but she couldn't tell if he was trying to calm her—or keep her from running again.
"This is the price of power," he said. "This is how the Sinclairs stayed in control for generations."
"You tortured people?"
"No," Adrien replied, his voice hollow. "We begged them to save us. They begged us to stop."
Eliana shoved him away. "And I'm just the next one, right? That's what the list is. I'm the twelfth girl. Another offering to the Sinclair curse."
Adrien's voice cracked. "You're not an offering."
"Then what am I?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled a locket from around his neck and opened it. Inside, a photograph.
Of Eliana. As a child. Standing beside Adrien—smiling, unaware.
"You saved me once," he said. "And I swore I'd never let them take you again."
She backed away from him, tears blurring her vision.
But just as she reached the doorway—her breath caught.
A woman stood there.
In a wedding gown stained red down the front.
Veil covering her face.
"Eliana," the figure whispered, voice like wind on ice. "You've finally come home."
Then the candles blew out.
Darkness.
Screams.
And the door slammed shut.