111. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he car slowed just before the gates, and for a second, I thought Brielle might make some sarcastic comment to break the silence. But she didn’t. Maybe even she knew this place didn’t call for words.
The gates were iron—tall, ornate, wrapped in black vines that looked like they’d been swallowing the metal for decades. Carved into the arch above was a symbol I didn’t recognize, but something about it made my chest tighten. A veiled eye, dagger through the center.
I hated how much it looked like something that belonged to me.
The gravel beneath the tires crackled as we moved forward, winding through a path of overgrown trees, stone walls, and looming statues of animals that weren’t quite right—eyes too sharp, mouths curled into something between a snarl and a smile.
I rolled down the window despite the chill.
The air smelled like ash and jasmine. Wild and wrong.
And then I saw it.
The estate.
It wasn’t just big—it was sprawling. Built from black stone and wild ivy and secrets, like it had grown out of the earth itself.
It looked more like a fortress than a home, with jagged edges and towers that scraped the sky.
Gargoyles watched from the highest points.
A lantern flickered near the arched doorway, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.
This place was a fucking cathedral of power. And somehow it was mine.
Or it should’ve been.
I swallowed hard, forcing the emotion down.
I didn’t grow up here. I wasn’t raised behind these gates, wrapped in silks or trained to inherit anything.
I grew up in a too-small house with a mother who never once said the word “legacy.” She’d told me my father was dead.
Dead and gone and not worth asking about.
But here I was twenty-two-years old. Alive. Betrayed.
And apparently, so was he.
Brielle parked near the steps, her nails drumming once against the wheel. “Try not to scream,” she muttered, her tone sharp but distant.
“I’m not the one who lied about a fucking funeral,” I said, my voice low and shaking.
She didn’t flinch. “Get out.”
The moment my boots hit the stone, the world tilted. Like the ground beneath me knew who I was, even if I didn’t. Even if I’d spent my whole life pretending I was just… ordinary.
I wasn’t.
Not here.
I followed Brielle up the steps, my fingers twitching at my sides. The doors opened before we even knocked, two men in black stepping aside without a word. One gave a shallow nod. One bowed.
I stepped inside.
The ceilings stretched like cathedrals, lit by dim golden chandeliers. Black and crimson carpets bled down the staircases. Paintings lined the walls—portraits of people with eyes like mine. Cold green. Almost cruel.
My skin prickled. I wanted to run, to punch the walls, to collapse all at once.
“Where is he?”
Brielle turned toward a hallway lined with shadows. “Waiting.”
I nodded once, but didn’t move. Not yet.
Because everything inside me was screaming.
He was alive.
My mother lied.
And the boys—the boys I left without a word—still didn’t know why.
And worst of all?
I wasn’t sure I did either.