The car rolled to a stop at the wrought iron gates of Rosemoor Manor, its headlights carving twin blades through the thick Devonshire fog. Vivienne D'Arcy leaned her temple against the cold glass, watching as the iron filigree twisted like skeletal fingers above the gate. It was just as she remembered—ancient, monolithic, and utterly silent. The place hadn't aged. Only she had.
The chauffeur said nothing as he opened the door. Vivienne stepped out into the mist, her heels finding the cobbled path with practiced grace. Her coat, a charcoal grey cashmere blend, hugged her curves like a secret. Beneath it, her dress clung like liquid shadow, slipping over her skin with every movement.
Rosemoor's sprawling silhouette loomed ahead, a Gothic monstrosity shrouded in ivy and tragedy. Towers, chimneys, and windows like blind eyes stared back at her. She inhaled deeply. The scent was the same—wet stone, ancient roses, and smoke that no longer rose from any hearth. Her pulse quickened.
It had been ten years since she left.
Ten years since the funeral.
Ten years since she buried her father.
Ten years since Damien Vale had pressed a bloodied ring into her hand and whispered, run.
Now, she was back.
Vivienne stepped through the archway, her gloved hand brushing the stone. And then she felt it.
A presence.
Something deep in the shadows beyond the courtyard stirred—a watchful, waiting darkness. Her spine straightened. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
The voice slipped through the air like silk across bare skin. Familiar. Intoxicating.
She turned.
Damien Vale stood beneath the arch of a dead wisteria vine, black coat unbuttoned, hair tousled by the wind. His eyes—green as serpent glass—fixed on her with a hunger that was half longing, half warning. He looked older, but the kind of older that men like him wore like armor: broader shoulders, a tighter jaw, a danger more refined.
"I wasn't sure I would," she said, her voice cool.
"You look..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as though trying to remember the exact shade of her soul. "Different."
"So do you. You used to smile."
He gave her a ghost of one. "You used to trust me."
A beat of silence passed. The air thickened. Somewhere in the distance, a raven called once—then silence again.
"I assume you didn't bring me back here for pleasantries," she said, folding her arms.
"No. I brought you here for the truth."
Vivienne lifted a brow. "And what truth would that be?"
Damien stepped closer. "The one they buried with your father. The one they think you're too fragile to know. But you're not fragile, are you, Vivienne?"
She didn't flinch. "Not anymore."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. Regret? Fear? Lust?
He reached into his coat and handed her a worn envelope, the edges frayed, her name scrawled across the front in her father's sharp hand.
"I've kept it sealed," he said. "For ten years."
Vivienne took it slowly, her gloved fingers brushing his bare ones. A current passed between them, electric and unwanted.
She looked down at the envelope.
To my daughter—when you are no longer innocent.
She swallowed.
"I'll be in the library," Damien said. "The fire's lit. You'll need it when you're done."
And with that, he vanished into the mist, the shadows swallowing him whole.
Vivienne stared after him, heart pounding. Then she looked at the letter again.
And tore it open