Chapter Sixteen - Chloe
The morning sunlight filters through the oversized windows, spilling golden light onto the polished marble floors of the bedroom. I lie in the massive bed, staring at the intricate designs carved into the ceiling. The air feels still, almost suffocating, as though even the silence of this place has weight.
It’s been days—maybe weeks—since the wedding. Time feels strange here, every day bleeding into the next with little to distinguish them. The opulence of my surroundings still hasn’t settled into anything resembling comfort. The gold trim, the crystal chandeliers, the lush fabrics—all of it feels like a reminder of what I’ve lost.
My life.
I sit up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My bare feet touch the cool floor, grounding me momentarily. Erik has been gone most of the time, busy with work, or so I’ve been told. His absence gives me space to breathe, though I’m constantly aware that this mansion, no matter how grand, is still a cage.
A gilded cage is still a cage.
I can’t sit here any longer. The restlessness that’s been gnawing at me won’t let me. I need to move, to do something, anything to remind myself I still exist beyond the walls of this room.
Throwing on a simple dress, I step out into the hallway, my footsteps light against the plush carpet. The mansion is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that makes you wonder if anyone else is even here.
The corridors seem endless, each one branching into another, lined with antiques and ornate decor. I pass an enormous vase filled with fresh white roses, their scent subtle yet piercing. I glance at the marble statues standing sentinel in alcoves, their cold, blank stares mirroring my own feelings of detachment.
As I wander, I let myself truly look at my surroundings for the first time. It’s all so carefully curated, as if every object, every piece of art, was placed with the sole intention of projecting power and control.
Turning a corner, I stop abruptly, my eyes landing on a hallway lined with portraits. They’re grand and imposing, each frame gilded and impossibly intricate.
I step closer, drawn in by their presence. The faces in the paintings are striking, each one polished and poised, their expressions composed. There’s a sense of perfection here, a sharp contrast to the chaos that swirls inside me.
One portrait in particular catches my attention. It’s a family—Erik, his parents, and a younger boy I don’t recognize. Erik looks younger, his face free of the harshness that defines it now, though the intensity in his eyes is still there, even then. His parents are statuesque, elegant, with an air of authority that feels almost oppressive.
I can’t tear my eyes away from Erik’s mother. Her sharp features and piercing gaze seem to reach out of the canvas, like she’s daring me to measure up and finding me lacking.
As I stand there, lost in the painting, the air behind me shifts. It’s subtle but undeniable, the faintest disturbance that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I turn quickly, my heart skipping a beat as my eyes land on Erik.
He’s standing just a few feet away, tall and commanding, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
“Does the mansion amuse you?” he asks, his voice low, the edges of it laced with teasing.
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely curious, and it throws me off-balance. My mind scrambles for a response.
“It’s…,” I begin, my voice faltering slightly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Is it?” His head tilts slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “You don’t seem convinced.”
I shift under his scrutiny, my hands clasping in front of me. “It’s just… a lot,” I admit, my voice quieter now.
A flicker of something crosses his face, though I can’t place it. Amusement, perhaps, or maybe just intrigue.
“This house has been in my family for generations,” he says, stepping closer. “Every piece has a story, every detail a purpose. It’s not just a house, Chloe. It’s a legacy.”
I glance back at the portrait behind me, at the faces staring out from the canvas. “Your family,” I murmur.
“Yes,” he replies, his tone softening slightly. “That’s my mother and father. My cousin, Kolya, is the boy.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. The painting suddenly feels heavier, the weight of their gazes pressing down on me.
“What do you think of them?” Erik asks, his voice drawing my attention back to him.
“They look… strong,” I say carefully, choosing my words with caution.
His lips curve into a faint smirk. “A polite way of saying intimidating.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to rise to his bait.
“You’re not wrong,” he continues, his gaze flicking briefly to the painting before returning to me. “Strength is everything in my family. Weakness isn’t tolerated.”
The words send a shiver through me, though I’m not sure if it’s his tone or the truth behind them that unsettles me more.
“And you?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Do you believe that too?”
Erik steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he stands just inches away. “Weakness gets you killed,” he says simply, his voice devoid of emotion. “So yes, I believe it.”
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening as his gaze pins me in place.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us feels charged, the tension thick enough to drown in.
Then, Erik steps back slightly, his expression unreadable. “Follow me,” he says, his tone a quiet command.
I hesitate, my body frozen in place.
“Chloe,” he says, his voice soft but firm, “follow me.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns and begins walking down the hallway, his steps slow and deliberate.
I stare after him, my heart pounding in my chest as I weigh my options.
Deep down, I already know.
I have no choice but to follow.
The click of our footsteps echoes as Erik leads me through the quiet, labyrinthine halls of the mansion. His strides are slow but purposeful, each step radiating the kind of confidence that feels almost suffocating. I follow in silence, my heart thudding louder with each passing second. The air grows heavier.
We stop in front of an imposing set of double doors. Erik’s hand lingers on the brass handle for a moment before he pushes them open, revealing a room that feels like stepping into another world.
The space is vast yet intimate, the kind of room meant to impress without feeling cold. It’s filled with antiques: statues carved from marble, intricate tapestries that tell stories of ancient battles, and towering shelves crammed with old books whose spines are cracked and faded with time.
My eyes are drawn to the centerpiece—a glass display case positioned under a beam of soft light. Inside, resting on velvet, is an ornate dagger.
My breath catches.
It’s the dagger from the auction.
I step forward without thinking, the pull of the blade irresistible. The intricate gold hilt glints under the light, its beauty undeniable. The memory of that night, of Erik’s smug expression as he outbid me, rushes back with startling clarity.
“Recognize it?” Erik’s voice cuts through the silence, smooth and mocking.
I glance over my shoulder, finding him leaning casually against the doorframe, his dark eyes watching me with amusement.
“At least it looks pretty.”
“Yes. A pretty trinket on display, much like my lovely wife.”
His words hit like a blow, but I refuse to let him see how deeply they cut. My eyes snap back to the dagger, the urge to hold it, to feel its weight in my hand, becoming impossible to resist.
Before I can stop myself, I lift the glass case and wrap my fingers around the hilt. The metal is cool against my skin, the blade surprisingly light yet deadly in its balance.
“You’ve been wanting that for a long time,” Erik says, his voice low as he takes another step closer.
I turn to face him, the dagger clutched tightly in my hand. “What are you doing, Erik?”
“Giving you an opportunity,” he says, his tone calm, almost too calm. He takes another step, and I instinctively move back, my shoulders brushing against the wall. “You claim to hate me, don’t you? You think I’m a monster, a villain in your story.”
I don’t respond, but my trembling grip on the dagger says enough.
“Then use it,” he says, stopping just a foot away. His eyes bore into mine, unflinching, unreadable. “If you hate me so much, Chloe, prove it. End it right here. Right now.”
The weight of his words settles heavily over the room, the air thick with an almost unbearable tension.
I shake my head, my voice trembling. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been fighting me since the beginning,” he says, his voice soft but relentless. “If you truly hate me, then this is your chance. Use it. Drive that blade into me and be free.”
I stare at him, the dagger shaking in my hand. His chest is right there, within striking distance, and yet I can’t move.
His voice drops lower, intimate and dark. “What’s stopping you… fear, or is it something else?”
Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. “Stop it,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“Why?” he presses, stepping even closer until the heat of his body radiates against mine. “Because you can’t? No matter how much you tell yourself you hate me, you can’t bring yourself to do it?”
My back presses harder against the wall as I shake my head, the tears spilling over now. “Shut up,” I plead, my voice choked.
His gaze softens just enough to make me falter further. “You can’t hurt me, Chloe,” he murmurs. “Not because you’re weak, but because it’s not in you. You’re not a killer. You never were.”
I can’t stop the sob that escapes me, my hand trembling so violently now that I nearly drop the dagger.
He reaches out slowly, his fingers curling gently around mine, guiding the blade downward. “Let it go,” he whispers. “You’re done fighting me.”
The dagger slips from my grip, clattering to the floor. My knees threaten to give out, and I collapse into his chest, the tears coming freely now.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, his arms hanging at his sides, as if he’s unsure what to do. Then, slowly, he wraps them around me, pulling me closer.
“Chloe,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.
I don’t know if it’s anger or exhaustion or something else entirely, but I tilt my head up to look at him, my breath hitching as his gaze meets mine. His face is so close, his lips just inches away.
I hate him.
I hate him, and yet, when his lips crash against mine, I don’t pull away.
The kiss is rough, demanding, and I respond without thinking, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pour every ounce of confusion and frustration into it. His hands grip my waist, his touch firm and possessive, as though he’s staking his claim all over again.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing heavily, the tension between us more palpable than ever. His thumb brushes against my cheek, wiping away a stray tear.