Chapter 12 #3
Inside, the castle is a temple to gothic excess.
The walls are draped in heavy, blood-red velvet and adorned with ornate black molding.
The floors are polished black marble, reflecting the flickering light of massive crystal chandeliers that hang from vaulted ceilings.
People are everywhere, dancing in slow, sensual circles or lounging on velvet divans, sipping deep red wine from crystal flutes.
A chandelier dripping crystal and candlelight from somewhere far above.
The walls are hung with dark tapestries, gilt-framed portraits of people I don't recognize, their painted eyes seeming to track us as we pass. Every single guest is dressed in high-fashion gothic attire—corsets, lace, leather, and silk, all in shades of midnight and obsidian, every stitch of it black or blood-red — dancing, drinking wine from crystal glasses, laughing in low, cultured voices. It’s a sea of beautiful, pale faces and dark clothing, an assembly of the damned and the decadent.
Somewhere unseen, a string quartet plays something slow and mournful, classical but twisted slightly minor, the kind of music that sounds beautiful and wrong at once.
A member of staff approaches — dressed, like all the others moving silently through the crowd, in a severe black uniform, high-collared, silver skull cufflinks at the wrist, faces perfectly neutral, as though they've all been trained out of expression entirely.
"The succubus package, please," Amara tells him, practically bouncing.
"The succubus package?" he asks with a thin, professional smile. "Follow me.”
He leads us up a sweeping spiral staircase, the marble cold beneath my feet.
We pass through a series of opulent rooms—libraries filled with leather-bound books and galleries of disturbing art—until we reach a long, dimly lit hallway.
As we walk, my breath hitches. At the very end of the corridor stands a door.
It’s crafted from a darker, heavier wood than the others, carved with intricate, swirling patterns that feel oppressive.
Darker wood, an iron handle worked into something like a rose.
It doesn't just look expensive; it feels him.
It radiates the same possessive, suffocating energy that Rhys does.
I linger for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the staff member keeps moving.
I file that away.
We stop instead at a door of deep, lacquered red.
He stops at a vibrant red door and pushes it open. "Welcome to the succubus lair. She'll join you shortly, once you're settled. I'll return with champagne to ease you both in."
The room beyond is a fever dream in crimson and black — velvet chaise longues arranged in a loose crescent facing a raised platform draped in dark silk, mirrors mounted along one wall (I keep my eyes carefully away from them), candles burning low in iron holders shaped like reaching hands.
Soft, sultry music drifts from somewhere unseen, all cello and breath, built for exactly the kind of seduction this room promises.
Amara whispers, spinning slowly in place, drinking it all in, “Oh, shit.”
The room is a sanctuary of carnal luxury.
From floor to ceiling, it is designed for seduction.
The walls are padded with deep crimson silk, and the lighting is a low, amber glow that makes everything feel hazy and warm.
In the center of the room is a massive, circular velvet lounge—a pit of plush red cushions and faux-fur throws where we are expected to sit.
Opposite the lounge is a raised platform, draped in sheer black curtains, where the succubus performs her art.
The air is thick with the scent of musk and vanilla, a smell that promises pleasure and danger in equal measure.
Amara practically throws herself onto the cushions, her eyes glazed with anticipation.
"Oh my god," she moans, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.
"I am absolutely going to be mind-fucked tonight in here in ways that will mess up the rest of my natural life.
She's going to wreck me, Ophelia. I'm going to be a complete mess for a week, and I can't fucking wait.”
I manage a small laugh despite everything, sinking onto the edge of one of the chaises while Amara claims the center of the crescent cushions, practically glowing with anticipation.
I feel a wave of nausea and anxiety wash over me. The opulence of the room feels like a cage. "I... I need the bathroom," I stammer, clutching my stomach. I say, standing again, "Nerves."
Amara asks, though I can see how badly she doesn't want to, "Want me to come with you, love? My nerves are absolutely flaring as well."
"No," I say quickly. "Stay. Wait for the champagne. If we both wander off, they might think we've changed our minds.”
Amara considers this, then nods. "Fair point. Don't take too long, though. I need you here to witness my complete and total unraveling. I want you to see me lose my mind. Give you one more reason never to look me in the eye again."
I give her a weak, breathless chuckle and slip out the door.
The hallway is silent. I look left and right; the staff member is gone, and the guests are all tucked away in the main hall. I am alone.
My feet move almost on their own, drawing me toward the end of the hall.
Every step feels like a mile, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm in my ears.
I reach the dark, carved door—Rhys's door.
I walk straight to the door at the end — the one that felt like him — my heart hammering harder with every step.
I know it's likely locked, but the pull is irresistible. I slowly reach for the knob, my fingers trembling.
It gives.
Just as I touch the cold metal and twist it, the door clicks and swings open.
I gasp, slipping inside and closing it softly behind me, my back pressed to the wood for a moment while my eyes adjust. The room is a stark contrast to the party outside.
It’s a private office, drenched in shadows.
It's an office. Dark, cavernous, lit only by a single lamp burning low on a heavy desk and the pale, cold wash of ghostly moonlight pouring and streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall that overlook the carnival grounds.
I tell myself to look at the desk, to find papers, a name, anything that explains him.
I make myself move toward the desk first, toward whatever papers might be scattered there —
But as I turn, something in the center of the room catches my eye.
My breath stops.
It’s a massive corkboard, and it is a nightmare made manifest. Standing in the middle of the room, taller than me, covered edge to edge in photographs, string strung between them in a dense, deliberate web.
It's covered in photos of me—hundreds of them. Red strings crisscross the board, tying one image to another in a web of obsession.
My legs go weak. I have to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. I step closer, my eyes scanning the evidence of my own life being dismantled.
A photograph of me as a child. My birth certificate. Hospital records dated before I turned twelve and stopped being taken to the hospital when ill, the paper trail simply stopping after that, the way my whole life seemed to.
A photograph of three identical little girls in matching bows, black hair, ice-blue eyes, grinning at a table with a cake between them — Cordelia, Rosalind, and me, twelve years old, taken the very day of the birthday that ended everything.
Me, Cordelia, and Rosalind. We were twelve, taken on the day of our birthday party. We look identical—three porcelain dolls with matching black bows in our hair and ice-blue eyes that stare back at me with a haunting innocence. This was the day before the night that took their lives.
Beside it: newspaper clippings. Homicide.
Next to the photo are yellowed newspaper clippings: TRAGEDY AT THE SORRELL HOUSE. Autopsy reports for my sisters. Police files detailing the homicide of two children. Police documentation of two children's deaths, laid out in cold, clinical language.
The strings lead forward in time, shifting to the present.
A photo of me from a few days ago, the first time he saw me.
A shot of me sleeping in my own bed, looking vulnerable and unaware.
A photo of me crying by my window at night.
Me reading on the floor. Me cooking in my kitchen.
Even a grainy shot of my drunk father on the street, drunk, screaming at me in the street at night, caught mid-shout of a twisted yell.
And at the very top of the board, in the same sharp, elegant hand I've come to recognize far too well, my own name. Written in a bold, possessive hand that makes my blood run cold, are two words:
Ophelia Sorrell.
My chest seizes. The room tilts. My breath comes shallow, then not at all, and the panic finally rises up to claim me whole.