Chapter 3 - The Locked Wing
Night fell over the Vance estate like a thick black veil. Rain began to patter softly against the tall arched windows of the guest bedroom—or what was supposed to be our master suite.
Ethan had come to bed late, long after the house had grown silent. He had crawled in beside me without a word, turning his back toward me and pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. When I reached out to touch his back, his muscles were tense, hard as granite.
"Ethan?" I whispered into the darkness.
"I'm tired, Claire. Let's just sleep," he muttered, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't decipher. Fear? Guilt? Grief?
I lay awake for hours, listening to the rhythmic dripping of the rain outside and the heavy, uneven breathing of the man beside me. Around two in the morning, Ethan stirred. He let out a low groan, twisting in the sheets, before sitting bolt upright. He didn't look at me. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, walking toward the bedroom door as if in a trance.
"Ethan?" I called out softly. He didn't answer.
I waited three seconds, then slipped out of bed, grabbing my silk robe from the chair. I stepped out into the hallway just in time to see his tall silhouette disappear around the corner toward the west wing of the house.
The west wing was officially closed off. During my visits before the wedding, Margaret had mentioned that the west wing suffered from water damage years ago and was kept locked until they could afford the structural repairs. Yet, as I crept down the dark, carpeted hallway, I saw a sliver of yellow light spilling out from beneath the heavy double doors at the very end.
The doors were ajar.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I squeezed through the opening, stepping onto an uncarpeted floor made of rough, unfinished hardwood. The air here was colder, smelling stale, of dry rot, damp concrete, and something sharply medicinal.
The hallway led to a small octagonal anteroom. On the far wall hung a massive oil painting of Ethan’s father, Richard Vance. He was a stern, dark-haired man with eyes identical to Ethan's, but his mouth was set in a hard, cruel line.
Beneath the portrait stood Ethan. He was kneeling on the cold floor in front of a small, antique iron safe that was set directly into the baseboard.
I held my breath, flattening myself against the wall shadows.
Ethan was tapping a code into the keypad. Click. Click. Click. The heavy iron door swung open with a dull metallic creak. He reached inside and pulled out a small, leather-bound journal and a clear glass vial containing a pale amber liquid.
He didn't open the journal. Instead, he cradled it against his chest, bowing his head until his forehead rested against the dusty floorboards. A sharp, ragged sob broke from his throat—a sound so raw and full of agony that it made my own eyes sting with tears.
"I'm sorry," Ethan whimpered to the empty room. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep hurting her."
Her? Was he talking about me? Or his mother?
Before I could move forward, the distinct sound of footsteps echoed from the main hallway. Heavy, slow, deliberate footsteps.
I shrank back into the deeper shadow of an alcove behind a decorative marble pedestal.
Margaret stepped into the room. She was wearing a thick velvet robe, holding an antique silver candlestick, the small yellow flame casting long, grotesque shadows across her face.
"Ethan," she said, her voice devoid of any maternal warmth. It was cold, commanding, and sharp as a scalpel. "What did I tell you about coming up here?"
Ethan didn't look up from the floor. "It's getting worse, Mom. The medicine isn't working anymore. Last night... she saw the blood. She knows something is wrong. She isn't stupid, Margaret!"
"She knows only what you allow her to know!" Margaret snapped, stepping closer and standing over him like a judge. "You weak, foolish boy. You promised your father. You swore on his deathbed that you would carry this family's responsibility without dragging outsiders into it!"
"She isn't an outsider! She's my wife!" Ethan raised his head, his voice cracking. "I love her!"
"Love?" Margaret let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Love won't save this family from ruin if the truth comes out, Ethan. Love won't keep you out of a prison cell or an asylum! Look at what happened last night! If I hadn't stepped in, if I hadn't taken the blame for being drunk, where would you be right now? You were losing control!"
I pressed my back against the wall, my hand flying to my mouth to smother a gasp. Losing control? What had happened on that bed while I was downstairs?
Ethan lowered his head again, his shoulders shaking as he wept silently. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he whispered. "It was an accident..."
"It is never an accident when the blood boils, Ethan," Margaret said softly, her tone shifting from harsh anger to a chilling, smothering affection. She knelt down beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling his head against her chest. "That is why you have me. Your mother will protect you. I have protected you from your father, from the town, from yourself. But you must let me handle Claire."
"No," Ethan gasped, pulling back slightly. "Don't touch Claire. Leave her out of this!"
"Then control yourself!" Margaret hissed, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Keep her in the dark. Give her a nice story, pack her off on a long trip, do whatever you must. But if she keeps prying, Ethan... I will do what needs to be done to protect this family. Just like I did for your father."
A cold sweat broke out across my body. The way Margaret said those words—just like I did for your father—carried a lethal weight.
Ethan slowly nodded, looking defeated, his spirit completely broken. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay. I'll get her to leave for a few weeks. I'll tell her it's for work."
"Good boy," Margaret murmured, kissing the top of his head. "Now put the ledger back. Take your dose. And come back downstairs."
I didn't wait to see them lock the safe. I turned and fled as silently as I could, slipping out of the west wing, my heart hammering like a sledgehammer against my chest. I sprinted down the long, carpeted hall, ducked into the master bedroom, and slid under the covers just as the rain outside turned into a blinding downpour.
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I lay in the dark, my breath ragged, staring at the ceiling. Ethan was keeping a deadly secret. Margaret was controlling him through fear and guilt. And whatever had happened on that bed last night involved blood, medicine, and a dark family history that Margaret was willing to kill to protect.
I wasn't just a new bride in a cold family. I was a target.
