Chapter 27
I’m sitting in the passenger seat, chewing on my lip until it nearly bleeds, watching the posh, manicured hedges of Whitby blur past the window.
Rhys hasn't said a fucking word since breakfast. He just dressed me—picked out something that makes me look less like a psychotic art student and more like a proper lady—and ushered me into the car with that possessive grip on the small of my back.
He is in an all black suit, including the shirt and the tie.
He’s driving with that calm, predatory focus, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I can feel the tension radiating off him, but it’s not the usual 'I want to fuck you into the mattress' tension. It’s something else. Something heavier.
Then, he slows down.
We pull up in front of a manor that makes my breath hitch.
It’s fucking massive. Not the sprawling, gothic nightmare that is Castellan Manor, but still 'old money' huge. Pristine white stone, towering windows, and gardens that look like they’ve been trimmed with a pair of nail scissors. It’s the kind of place that screams wealth and bloodlines.
My heart starts hammering against my ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm. I don't even know why I'm shaking, but I am. I feel small. I feel like a smudge of dirt on a silk sheet.
I turn to him, my voice trembling just a bit. "Rhys... what is going on? Why are we here? What is this place?"
He doesn't look at me immediately. He kills the engine, the silence of the car suddenly feeling suffocating. He turns his head, those dark, obsessive eyes locking onto mine.
"Remember when you used my phone to call your grandmother?
" he asks, his voice a low, grounding rumble.
"You left a message for the staff saying you had information on Marguerite Hansburg. Your grandmother has called me back that same night. She’s been calling me incessantly since, Ophelia. I told her exactly who you are."
My heart skips a beat. A physical jolt that leaves me breathless. "My... my grandmother? Is she in there? Is this her house?"
Rhys nods slowly. "Your grandmother and grandfather. The parents of Marguerite Hansburg. This is the Hansburg manor, love. Your grandparents are inside. Your mother's brothers are inside. And her fiancé, Harry Jackson, is there too."
I freeze. The air in the car feels like it's vanished.
I can't breathe. I can't move. All I can think about is the rot, the violence, the way I was born from a nightmare. I’m the product of a kidnapping, a rape, a fucking horror story. I’m the living evidence of the worst thing that ever happened to the Hansburg line.
"I can't," I whisper, my voice cracking.
I pull my arms tight across my chest, trying to hold myself together.
"Rhys, I can't go in there. I came from...
from him. I'm the daughter of the man who ruined her.
What if they hate me? What if they look at me and only see the monster who took everything from their daughter and killed her? They won't fucking accept me."
I’m spiraling, the panic rising in my throat like bile. I expect him to tell me to toughen up, or maybe just laugh at my fragility. But Rhys does something different.
He reaches out, his large hand cupping the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below my ear. He pulls me toward him, not violently this time, but with a fierce, protective intensity. He forces me to look at him, his eyes burning with that manic, unwavering devotion.
"Look at me, Ophelia," he commands, his voice dropping to a guttural whisper. "You are not your father. You are mine. You are a masterpiece of pain and beauty, and anyone who can't see that is a fucking blind idiot."
He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin.
"They aren't in there waiting to judge you, you silly girl. They're waiting for you nervously. They've been pacing the floors, counting the seconds until you walk through that door. They don't see a daughter of a monster; they see the only piece of Marguerite they have left in this world."
He kisses my temple, a lingering, possessive press of his lips.
"If they so much as blink the wrong way at you, I’ll burn this whole posh estate to the ground with them inside it.
You’re a Hansburg by blood and a Castellan by choice.
You walk in there with your head high, or I’ll carry you in myself and tell them exactly how lucky they are that you’ve decided to grace them with your presence. "
He pulls back, giving me a sharp, wicked smirk that tells me he’s only half-joking about the arson. "Now, stop shaking. You're the most terrifyingly beautiful thing in this neighborhood. Let's go.”
Rhys doesn't just let me sit there and rot in my own panic.
He hops out of the car, his movements fluid and predatory as always, and rounds the bonnet to open my door.
He reaches in, his large hand gripping mine to haul me out of the seat.
He doesn't let go once I'm on my feet; he keeps me tucked tight against his side, his presence a heavy, grounding weight that stops me from floating away into a full-blown meltdown.
We walk up the pristine gravel path toward the massive front doors. I feel like a fucking imposter, a glitch in this perfect, wealthy postcard. Rhys reaches out and presses the doorbell, the chime echoing through the house like a summons. So he can have manners. Good to know.
The door swings open in seconds. A butler—stiff-backed, polished, and looking like he’s never had a hair out of place in his entire life—greets us with a practiced bow.
"Mr. Castellan, Miss Sorrell," he says, his voice a smooth, colorless drone. "We have been expecting you."
He gestures for us to enter, asking if he can take our coats. I instinctively shake my head, clutching the fabric tighter around me. I need the comfort, the feeling of being wrapped in something, otherwise I feel like I’m standing naked in front of the world.
As we're led inside, we pass through a long, sweeping corridor lined with gold-framed pictures. My breath hitches. There, dominating the wall, is a massive portrait of Marguerite.
I stop dead. I can't fucking move.
I stare at the woman in the painting, and for a second, I feel like I'm looking into a mirror.
I didn't inherit a single fucking thing from my father—not the eyes, not the jaw, nothing of that monster.
I am a carbon copy of her. Marguerite is breathtaking, draped in a heavy, Gothic Victorian gown of midnight black silk and intricate lace that looks like frozen spiderwebs.
The collar is high and stiff, the sleeves billowing before tapering into delicate buttons at the wrists, and the bodice is cinched tight, giving her that haunting, ethereal silhouette.
A cold shiver runs down my spine as I realize something. I know that dress. I own that gown. It was one of the few things I had when I had nothing else to wear, a relic of a life I barely remember. I've worn it a thousand times, feeling the ghost of her skin against mine.
I reach out, my fingers trembling as I trace the painted fabric of the gown. My eyes blur, hot tears pricking the corners. I’m not just a mistake; I’m a memory.
I force myself to keep moving, but I’m clinging to Rhys now, my fingers locked tight in his hand, my other hand wrapped around his bicep like a lifeline. He doesn't mind; if anything, he seems to enjoy how I am clinging on to him.
He leads me into the living room, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. The living room... It’s blindingly white—cream carpets, ivory walls, pale furniture. It feels sterile, like a gallery, and in the center of it all is a group of people waiting for me.
They’re all dressed in fine, expensive clothing, looking like the pinnacle of British aristocracy. The moment we step inside, the room goes dead silent. They all freeze, rising from their seats in unison, their eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes me want to bolt.
Rhys is the first to break the silence. He doesn't sound like the psychotic bastard who tears clothes off me in greenhouses; he sounds composed, almost polite, though there's still that possessive edge to his voice. He looks toward the elderly couple, whose eyes are already brimming with tears.
"Arthur Hansburg, Eleanor Hansburg," Rhys says, his voice echoing in the white space. "Here is your granddaughter, Ophelia."
The small woman—Eleanor—trembles. She looks like a fragile piece of porcelain that might shatter if the wind blows too hard.
She walks toward me, her steps hesitant, and then her hand reaches up, her fingers shaking violently as she cups my face.
She brushes her thumb over my cheek, feeling my skin, then runs her hand through my hair as if checking to see if I'm actually real.
"You look just like her," she whispers, her voice cracking. "You look exactly like Marguerite... exactly as she was before she was taken away."
Before I can even get a word out, before I can tell her I'm terrified, she pulls me into a crushing, tight hug. She smells like old roses and expensive soap.
"I'm your grandmother," she sobs into my shoulder. "I'm your mother's mother, my baby."
She pulls back just enough to hold my face again, staring at me with a desperate need to memorize every line of my face, before she pulls me back into another hug—tighter this time, affectionate and fierce.
Finally, she lets me go, though she keeps a hand on my arm, and she turns to the old man. "Go on, Ophelia. Say hello to your grandfather."
I turn to him, my heart hammering against my ribs. He’s leaning on a polished walking cane, his face etched with years of grief and longing, tears streaming openly down his cheeks.
"Hi... hi, grandfather," I whisper, my voice small and shaking.
He doesn't say a word at first; he just opens his arms wide. I don't hesitate. I rush into him, colliding with his chest and sobbing into his tweed jacket. I hold onto him for dear life, as if he's the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.