Chapter 30
I’m sprawled on the sofa, phone in hand, texting Amara.
?? How’s it going, babe? You surviving the week or is it a total bin fire?
I’m just waiting for her to reply when the heavy thud of boots echoes in the hallway.
Rhys strolls in, looking far too smug for his own good. He doesn’t say a word at first, just reaches into his pocket and flicks a small plastic card onto my lap.
I blink, picking it up. It’s my ID. My actual, legal, fucking identity. I stare at the photo—I look haunted, eyes wide and dark, but it’s me. I look at the clock on the wall. It’s barely 4 pm. I only went in, took the photo, and signed the papers this morning.
"You've got to be fucking joking," I mutter, rubbing my thumb over the plastic. "It’s only been a few hours. How the fuck is this already here?"
Rhys doesn't answer with words. Instead, he hooks a finger under my chin and pulls me up, crashing his lips onto mine. It’s one of those kisses that tastes like ownership, deep and demanding, leaving me breathless and slightly dizzy.
He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark and swirling with that psychotic intensity.
"Told you I had the connections, didn't I, love?
" he murmurs against my lips. "Now that you officially exist in the eyes of the state, we can move on. Tomorrow morning, we’re sorting your bank account.
We need a place to dump that mountain of cash from the auction before you spend it all on black paint and lace. "
I let out a soft huff, leaning my head against his chest. "Fair point."
His tone shifts, becoming something heavier, more somber. "And then, the day after tomorrow... we have Marguerite’s funeral."
I stiffen slightly, the image of my mother’s preserved, ghostly beauty flashing through my mind. "Right," I whisper. "They’ve finally agreed. She can be buried properly now."
Rhys wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight, his grip almost bruising. "Are you ready to let her go, Ophelia? Truly?"
I close my eyes, thinking of the attic, the secrets, and the blood we spilled to get here. I nod slowly. "Yeah. She deserves to rest. She’s spent enough time in the dark. It's time she had some peace."
I pull back and look at the ID card again, then look up at him.
He’s standing there, looking every bit the powerful, untouchable man he is.
It hits me then—the way people look at him.
Not just the civilians, but the coppers.
I've seen the way other police officers shrink when he enters a room, the way they stutter and avoid eye contact, as if he’s a predator and they’re just fucking rabbits.
"Rhys?" I ask, my voice curious. "Why are the police so fucking terrified of you? I mean, you are one of the most powerful people in the entire England even, technically, but it's different. What makes Rhys Castellan so far above the law that they won't even look you in the eye?"
A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face. He looks absolutely delighted that I asked.
"The law is a suggestion for people who don't know how to manipulate the system, darling," he says, his voice smooth as velvet. "Most coppers are just drones. They follow the rules because they're scared of the consequences. I create the consequences."
I arch an eyebrow. "Right. Cryptic as always. Give it to me straight—do you have their bollocks in a jar somewhere?"
He chuckles, a low, dark sound. "Not quite, though it’s a tempting thought.
It’s simpler than that. Information, Ophelia.
I know where the bodies are buried—literally and figuratively.
I know which commissioners are taking bribes, which inspectors are fucking their secretaries, and which 'decorated' officers have a taste for things that would get them thrown in a hole for the rest of their lives. "
"Blackmail," I say, a smirk of my own forming. "You're just a posh blackmailer with a fat bank account."
"I prefer the term 'strategic leverage'," he counters, stepping closer and pinning me against the back of the sofa.
"When you hold the keys to a man's ruin, he doesn't just obey you—he fears you.
He becomes a tool. The police force isn't a hierarchy of rank in my world; it's a hierarchy of secrets.
And I happen to hold the biggest vault."
I look at him, feeling a thrill of genuine fear mixed with an intoxicating amount of lust. He’s a monster, a complete and utter psychopath, and he’s the only person in this godforsaken world who can protect me.
"So," I whisper, sliding my hand up his chest to grip his collar. "You're basically the king of the world."
"Exactly," he growls, his eyes flashing. "And you, my sweet, murderous girl, are the queen. Which means no one—not a single fucking soul—gets to touch you unless I say so.”
I stand in the dusty, suffocating heat of the attic at the Tin Heart toy shop, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The air is thick with the smell of old wood, mothballs, and that lingering, cloying scent of death that never truly leaves a place where a body has been hidden.
Rhys is right behind me, his presence a heavy, grounding weight. He doesn’t say a word, but his hand is clamped firmly on the small of my back, letting me know he’s there, holding me together while I feel like I’m about to fucking shatter.
The men—professionals, quiet and clinical—carefully open the box.
I flinch as the lid creaks, the sound echoing in the silence of the attic.
They lift the remains of my mother, Marguerite, with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.
She looks like a porcelain doll that’s been left in the rain too long—fragile, pale, and hauntingly beautiful even in her decay.
"Just her," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Leave the twins."
They nod, leaving the small, heartbreaking remains of my sisters in the box. It feels wrong, leaving them behind for now, but I can't bear the thought of the chaos. I need my mum to be the priority today. I need her to be free.
We follow them downstairs, the floorboards groaning under our feet.
In the center of the room sits the coffin—a masterpiece of gothic craftsmanship, black polished mahogany with silver filigree that looks like frozen vines.
It’s a fucking fortress for the dead. As they gently lower Marguerite inside, I feel a sob rip through my chest. I step forward, my fingers brushing the cold silk lining of the casket.
"Sleep well, Mummy," I breathe, the words barely audible. "No more pain. No more dark corners."
Rhys pulls me back gently, his grip tightening as he guides me toward the door. "It's time, love."
The drive to the Hansburg manor is a blur of grey skies and rain-slicked roads.
I stare out the window, my mind racing. Every turn feels like we're descending deeper into a memory I've spent time trying to erase.
When we pull up to the manor, the house looks like a brooding giant, its spires piercing the overcast sky.
We walk toward the family mausoleum, a towering structure of weathered grey stone covered in creeping ivy that looks like skeletal fingers clutching the walls. The air here is colder, damp and smelling of wet earth and ancient stone.
Everyone is crying. Rhys's eyes are red too.
The heavy iron gates groan as they swing open, leading us into the heart of the tomb. Inside, the atmosphere is oppressive, the silence so heavy it feels like it's pressing against my eardrums. The walls are lined with the effigies of ancestors, their stone eyes watching us with cold indifference.
They slide the mahogany coffin into the family vault with a heavy, metallic thud. The sound is final. It’s the sound of a door closing on a lifetime of agony.
As the stone slab is slid into place to seal her in, I feel a strange mixture of devastating grief and absolute, fucking relief. The weight that has been sitting on my chest since I was a child—the secret, the horror, the haunting—finally starts to lift.
Rhys wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. He doesn't try to offer some platitude or some bollocks about 'everything happening for a reason.' He just holds me, his strength the only thing keeping me upright.
We walk out of the mausoleum and back into the open air.
I stop and look up at the sky. The clouds are breaking, a sliver of pale, watery light filtering through the grey.
I imagine her spirit—not the ghostly, grieving woman I saw in the attic, but the Marguerite she was before Thomas turned her life into a living hell.
I close my eyes, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek.
Go on then, Mummy, I think, my heart aching. Get the fuck out of here. Go to where the souls go. Find the girls. Find some peace.
I take a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I can actually breathe. She's gone. She's finally, truly, at rest.