His words struck a chord, though I refused to show it.
"Then tell me why you hate my family so much," I demanded, my voice rising.
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might answer. But then he shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips.
"Some truths are better left buried," he said.
That night, sleep eluded me. The west wing loomed in my mind like a taunt, its secrets daring me to uncover them.
The house was silent as I slipped out of my room, my bare feet padding softly against the cold marble floors. Every creak of the old wood seemed deafening, every shadow a lurking phantom.
The door to the west wing was heavier than I expected. My fingers trembled as I pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, the air was thicker, as though it hadn’t been disturbed in years. Dust danced in the moonlight streaming through cracked windows.
A large, ornate mirror dominated the far wall, its gilded frame tarnished with age. My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed.
"You shouldn’t be here."
The voice made me whirl around, my heart leaping to my throat. Nathaniel stood in the doorway, his face a mask of fury and something else—panic.