Vivienne couldn't sleep.
The manor pulsed with memories—some hers, some not. The kind of place where shadows whispered names you hadn't spoken in years. Every creak in the floorboards, every gust of wind against the tall windows, seemed like a message meant for her. A warning. A lure.
She stood by her bedroom window in nothing but a silk slip, dark brown hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, her honey-brown eyes scanning the grounds below. The fog had thickened since dusk, turning Rosemoor's gardens into a haunted canvas of roses, stone, and silhouettes. Somewhere beneath that mist was the east wing—and the truth.
She turned away. The room was dimly lit, a single candle flickering atop the vanity. Her suitcase remained half-unpacked, as though part of her knew this place would never feel like home again. Or perhaps it never had.
A knock—quiet, deliberate—echoed from her door.
Her breath caught.
She crossed the room slowly and opened it just enough to see him.
Damien.
He leaned against the frame, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, damp from the mist. His green eyes swept over her, slowly, deliberately. Not lewdly. Like a man memorizing a sin he knew he'd commit again.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"You knocked."
He hesitated. "I couldn't sleep either."
Vivienne stepped back, letting the door widen. He entered like a shadow, like something that had already lived here for centuries.
She crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
He studied her. "To talk."
"Talk, Damien. But don't lie."
He moved to the candle, his fingers brushing the flame without fear. "There's something you need to know. About your father's death."
Her heart turned to glass. "I thought it was an accident."
He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw the weight he carried—the war behind his calm exterior.
"It wasn't."
Silence stretched between them like a blade.
She exhaled. "Who?"
"I don't know yet. But your father... he found something. Something he wasn't meant to."
Vivienne swallowed. "What kind of something?"
Damien looked away. "Records. Documents. Proof that the D'Arcy estate was being used to launder money—through the charities, through the galleries... even the orphanage."
Her chest constricted. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" he asked quietly. "You were sent away just days after he discovered it. And days after that, he died in a fire that never reached the rest of the house."
Vivienne's voice was barely a whisper. "You think someone in the family—?"
"I don't think," he said. "I know."
A slow chill crept over her skin.
Damien stepped closer, his voice low. "And they know you're back. They know you have access to the will. To the hidden accounts. And they won't wait long."
"Why tell me this now?" she asked.
His eyes darkened. "Because tonight, someone tried to get into the east wing."
Vivienne's blood ran cold. "Did you see who?"
He shook his head. "No. But they're not amateurs. And they're not afraid."
She turned away, trying to collect herself. Damien's reflection watched her in the vanity mirror—still, unreadable, dangerous.
"I'll move you to the west quarters," he said. "They're safer. Heavily barred."
Vivienne met his gaze in the mirror. "I'm not leaving this room."
"You should."
"No," she said, fire returning to her voice. "I've run enough, Damien. Let them come."
He stepped closer, now right behind her. His hand hovered near her shoulder but didn't touch.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured.
Her voice was steel. "Good. I'm done playing innocent."
Their eyes met again in the mirror. The air between them hummed.
And just before he turned to leave, he said, "Lock your door tonight. Not because you're afraid. But because I am."
Then he was gone.
And Vivienne stood in the quiet, listening.
Because the night was no longer silent.
It whispered her name.