Chapter 7 #4
I run my hand along the hood of one of them, feeling the smooth, cool metal beneath my fingertips.
So, Hayden collects cars. I shake my head, half amused, half exasperated.
If I were going to be trapped here, at least there were distractions.
And if I ever did manage to leave, I'll likely steal one of these for the road.
The thought sends a thrill through me, and I immediately scan the room for keys.
There has to be a clue — a pegboard, a set of hooks, maybe even one left carelessly in the ignition.
I move toward the workbench lining the back wall, searching through drawers and small compartments, but there’s nothing.
No jangling sets of keys, no careless oversight.
Then I see it. Mounted to the wall in the far corner is a metal lockbox. Small, unassuming, but unmistakable.
I let out a bitter laugh. Sure, I’ll try it, but a man like Hayden wouldn’t just leave the keys to these cars unlocked.
I walk up to it, pressing my fingers against the cool steel to test if it might be loose. It isn’t. The keyhole is small, built for a precise mechanism, and I already know I won’t find the key anywhere obvious.
I try to remove the lid with my hands, but I can't wiggle it apart. Figures. Even his damn cars are locked up like treasures in a vault.
I push away from the lockbox, exhaling sharply before turning back toward the open doors of the garage. Fine. No cars, then. But there had to be more here.
There isn’t.
As I step back into the cold morning air, my eyes sweep across the grounds, searching for anything promising. Even if I wanted to go, where would I end up?
And then I see them.
Stables.
It’s not like I can just ride a horse back to my flat at Eulogia. But I’m desperate, and people have done odder things on that campus.
Tucked beyond the tree line, partially obscured by a line of tall hedges, the structure is long and elegant–the kind of thing that belongs to a functioning estate. My pulse kicks up in anticipation.
I march toward the building, the damp earth soft under my boots as I approach. But as I draw closer, my initial excitement dulls, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach.
The stables are empty.
The doors stand slightly ajar, swaying faintly in the breeze, and when I step inside, dust swirls in the shafts of morning light.
The air is stale, tinged with the distant scent of old hay and leather, but there’s no sound of shifting hooves, no soft huffs of breath.
The stalls, though beautifully crafted, stand vacant. Abandoned.
I run a hand over the wooden railing, my fingers catching on splinters. Whatever horses once lived here, they’re long gone.
My throat tightens as I glance around, taking in the discarded tack, the empty hooks where bridles should hang. A waste. A quiet, forgotten piece of the estate that no one bothered to maintain.
In a way, this Estate is nearly orphaned, except for my bedroom and the grand library. As though it’s tended to, but hardly used for all its grandeur.
I sigh, rubbing my temples before stepping back out into the cold.
A dull ache settles in my chest as I glance back at the empty stalls.
I can’t help but think of my horse Lilibet.
Her steady, surefooted gait beneath me, the way she’d huff impatiently if I took too long to mount.
She would have carried me far away from here without hesitation, trusting me the way I trusted her.
But there’s no Lilibet here. No familiar nuzzle against my palm, no rhythmic sound of hooves on soft earth. Just silence. Just another locked door in a place that already feels like a prison. No cars. No horses. No easy escape.
Frustration simmers beneath my skin, burning hotter with every step I take back toward the house.
My boots slap against the stone pathway with unnecessary force, each stomp a wordless curse at this ridiculous, gilded prison.
If I couldn’t drive away, and I couldn’t ride away, then I was going to find something else to do.
And if I couldn’t leave, I could at least drink.
The wine cellar had to be here somewhere. A house like this, this old and excessive, was bound to have one. I just had to find it.
I push through the back entrance, shrugging off the thick coat and kicking off the wellies, and am back in the Keds the moment I step into the toasty warmth of the house.
The heat seeps into my skin, chasing away the damp chill that had settled in my bones as I make my way through the winding hallways with a determined stride.
My fingers skim along the ornate paneling, searching for anything that might hint at a hidden door, a downward staircase, or a sign pointing to an extensive collection of expensive alcohol just waiting for me to raid it.
After a few wrong turns and a detour past three separate formal dining rooms, too polished to have been used, I finally find it—a heavy wooden door set into the stone foundation of the house. I test the handle. Unlocked.
A small victory.
The air cools as I descend a short flight of stairs, the scent of aged oak and dust curling around me.
The cellar is precisely as I hoped—rows upon rows of wine racks, bottles meticulously arranged, some so old their labels have faded into obscurity.
I let out a small, satisfied huff, finally, something in this house I could actually use.
If I'm unable to escape, I'll indulge in my captor's comforts. Now, the real question is, what year do I feel like drinking?
The wine cellar is less of a dank, musty basement and more of a pristine, climate-controlled wine room, sleek and modern despite the estate’s otherwise old-world charm.
Shelves upon shelves of bottles gleam under soft lighting, each label meticulously organized.
Of course, it’s impressive. Everything in this house is.
I run my fingers along a row of bottles, scanning the names, the vintages. Some are absurdly rare, the kind of wine collectors would kill for. I’m not about to get on a ladder and risk my dignity, but I don’t need to. There are plenty of expensive options well within reach.
I pluck a bottle from the rack, turning it over in my hands. Chateau Lafite Rothschild, an excellent year. The kind of wine that should be uncorked at a gala, not stolen by a frustrated prisoner looking for a way to spite her captor. All the better. It’ll do.
Bottle in hand, and snagging a second one on my way out, as well as a single glass and bottle opener.
I make my way back upstairs, my footsteps lighter now, almost triumphant.
If I couldn’t escape, I could at least indulge.
And if I had to be trapped here, I might as well do it with a very expensive drink in an extensive library.
That, at least, was a small luxury.
I settle into the library, the warmth of the grand fireplace licking at the edges of the dimly lit room.
I start with a mission, combing through the endless shelves, fingers gliding over the spines of leather-bound books, searching for anything remotely useful.
A family archive, hidden journals—anything that might give me more insight into Hayden and his world.
But after a while, it becomes obvious. Nothing here will help me. It’s all curated, a collection of first editions and history texts.
Until I stumbled into rows and rows of beautifully documented family history, housed in a built-in cabinet at the back of the hall-like room. Leather-bound volumes with gold detailing, archival boxes labeled by decade. It’s overwhelming in its precision, and yet, strangely intimate.
I skim through old documents and history ledgers. The family tree piques my interest. The record notes that Hayden’s parents, Christopher and Hailey, died when he was young. A tragic accident, it says.
I read further, fingers tightening on the edge of the page, and come across a greying newspaper clipping detailing the accident in stark, merciless lines.
A gruesome account of a double murder aboard a yacht—both victims shot multiple times while their young son slept in the cabin below.
There’s nothing about who carried out the slaughter.
A handful of follow-up articles sit tucked behind it, each one confirming the same thing:
The case was never solved.
But what is clear from the clipping is this: there are no living relatives. Hayden inherits everything—the estate, the assets, the Legacy—and is placed under the guardianship of an elderly, distant cousin.
From there, his name resurfaces again and again, scattered through handwritten entries in old ledgers of titles and trusts. It’s as if someone, somewhere, kept trying to account for him.
Another journal entry explains that the distant cousin passed away not long after Hayden's eighteenth birthday, leaving him with no surviving relatives.
Slapping the journal down, I switch to another bound book. Then, the extensive wealth becomes clear: horses. The Herron family has bred them for generations. Arabians, Thoroughbreds, Andalusians. Auction records list bloodlines like royalty; some of them sold for more than most estates.
Photos of sprawling pastures, gilded trophies, letters from European stables, and private collectors. Every creature born was a statement of control, elegance, and power. And Hayden, it seems, was raised no differently.
It hurts to read about the horses, and it hurts even more to read about all of Hayden's loss.
So, I push the papers away, afraid of the gnawing feeling in my stomach.
I open the wine, helping myself to a large gulp before I continue.
But behind all of the leatherbound books is a small red diary, looking as if it’s more of a personal item than an archival piece. The red leather that envelops it is still new-looking, as though it isn’t as old or essential as the books surrounding it, but something in my chest knows better.