Page 6

Scarlett

A nother day has passed. Another day where I woke confused, in pain, staring at surroundings that felt as strange as they did unfamiliar.

Alex was there when I awoke and, after making sure I understood the rules, he left me to it.

I’m not to overexert myself. I’m not to go off gallivanting around the island. I’m to remain in the house and can only go out into the grounds if I’m appropriately dressed and easily viewed from the windows.

I’m not to go to the cliffs.

I’m not to be difficult with the staff.

And most especially, I am to rest. To take it easy.

As if I ever had the temperance for lounging around.

I tried to paint. I desperately tried to sketch something, anything.

But the ink refused to flow, and the brushes were not my friends.

I ate in silence, alone, in the austere dining room. I know Irene, Alex’s mother, also resides here but she stays mostly in her own wing, and even more so when her husband and favourite son are away.

It’s not that she hates me. But she certainly doesn’t like me either.

Perhaps she was put out that Alex didn’t marry someone ‘more suitable’.

Someone with the right education, with the right family name.

Someone who attended their country club and moved in their circles.

God, I can imagine her reaction when she heard he was dating a struggling artist, one that had to work as a barmaid to pay the bills, because their family weren’t wealthy enough to cover the expenses.

How she reacted to us getting engaged I have no idea, but she plays her part well when it’s necessary to do so.

I’ve laid awake, wondering where my husband is, while the note I found in my studio burns a hole in my nightstand drawer. I’ve read it so many times that the words are etched into my mind, becoming a mantra of fear and uncertainty.

“You’re not safe here. Trust no one.”

Sleep is a distant dream, its promise of respite a cruel joke. Every time I close my eyes, I’m assaulted by fragmented memories and half-formed fears.

I see Alex’s face, his smile masking an abyss I’m only beginning to fully understand.

I hear Rafe’s voice, its low timbre both a threat and a lifeline in the chaos that surrounds me.

With frustration, I throw off the covers, and the cool air sets goosebumps across my skin.

I can’t stay here, trapped within these four walls, becoming more and more a prisoner of my own mind as well as the machinations of the Forster family.

I need to move, to act, to do something that will bring me closer to the truth. I need to jumpstart my memory. I need to make myself better because let’s face it, Alex certainly has no intention of doing that.

Silently, I slip out of bed, pulling on a thick velvet robe to ward off the chill. The house is quiet, the staff have long since retired and are seemingly lost in dreams that I envy.

At the door I pause, listening for any sign of movement, any indication that I’m not alone.

Mercifully, the coast seems clear, so I venture out into the dimly lit hallway. The portraits of Forster ancestors gaze down at me with stern expressions, their eyes following my progress as I make my way toward the staircase that leads to the lower levels of the mansion.

I’ve never explored the house at night. I don’t know how I know that with such certainty, but I do.

The darkness lends an air of menace to the grandeur. The shadows seem to pulse with a life of their own, and I find myself jumping at every creak and groan of the old wood beneath my feet.

I reach the ground floor, the marble tiles cold against my bare feet. The library calls to me, its promise of freedom too tempting to ignore. I push open the door, the familiar scent of leather and ink enveloping me like a comforting blanket that I suddenly need so desperately.

The moonlight filters in through the ridiculously oversized windows, casting a silvery glow over the rows of books.

I run my fingers over the spines, the titles a jumble of forgotten stories and classical literature.

At random I pull out a volume, its pages yellowed with age.

The book falls open to a marked passage, the words leaping out at me as if begging to be heard.

“And so, the lady fair was locked away in the tower, her cries for help unheard by the world outside.”

A shiver runs down my spine as I read the line, the parallels to my own situation too damn clear.

With horror, I slam the book shut, my heart pounding in my chest.

Stop it Scarlett. Just stop.

I can’t afford to get lost in fairy tales and fanciful thoughts. I need to stay grounded, to focus on the reality of my situation, no matter how bleak it is right now.

Once the book is safely stuffed back onto the shelf, my gaze wanders to the far corner of the library where a heavy curtain hangs.

I know what’s there, what I found weeks ago and somehow, thankfully still remember.

With a tug I pull the fabric back, revealing a door that is smaller than the others, almost as if it’s meant to be overlooked.

Fear, excitement, every emotion in between rushes over me as I reach for the doorknob.

I’ve never dared go down this, though I have a hunch where it leads.

It turns with a soft click, the door swinging open to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into more darkness, while a musty scent wafts up from the depths.

But musty is good. Musty means this is not a well-trodden path.

Musty means the staff don’t clean here, don’t use it as a private route away from the family’s ever watchful eyes.

And yet, I hesitate at the top of the stairs, the beat of my heart echoing so damned loudly in my ears.

I should turn back.

Return to the relative safety of my room.

If I am found here, if I am discovered… I shake my head, forcing those pathetic thoughts down. You don’t win by being a coward. You don’t win by playing meek. Knowledge is power, and this here, this could be the difference between victory and defeat when the truth does come out.

With tentative steps, I descend into the shadows, the darkness wrapping around me like a cloak.

The air grows colder with each step, the chill seeping into my bones and making me shiver from more than just fear.

By the time I reach the bottom my feet are frozen, and it takes a good minute for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

It’s a cellar.

Thick, stone walls dotted with cobwebs are what greet me, and I’ll admit I feel a pang of disappointment. Had I hoped for more? Yes. Had I hoped for some big reveal, some big answer to all the secrets? I guess I won’t find it here. And certainly not tonight.

Old furniture and forgotten trinkets are scattered haphazardly around the space, all of them a testament to the Forster family’s long history and changing tastes.

There’s a maze of discarded relics, and I brush my fingers against the dust-covered surfaces as I walk before I come to stop in front of a cobweb covered mirror. It’s my reflection that makes me pause, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m more of a ghostly apparition than a real person.

For a moment, I barely recognize the woman before me. Her blue eyes are too wide, the haunted look in their depths is a stark contrast to the spark that once dwelled there. Her skin is pale, the shadows beneath her eyes a map of sleepless nights and unspoken fears.

I turn away from the image, my gaze falling on a stack of old paintings leaning against the wall. I sift through them, the images a montage of landscapes and portraits that span generations.

And then I see it—a canvas that looks suspiciously like the one from my studio, the one with my distorted face twisted in a silent scream.

My heart skips a beat as I pull the painting from the pile, the shock of recognition making me stagger backward.

It’s identical to the one upstairs, down to the last, terrifying detail.

But how can that be?

Who painted this, and why are there two identical portraits in this house? What the hell is going on here?

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until it’s too late.

A figure emerges from the shadows, their sudden appearance making me gasp and jump back in surprise, and my body slams into an old chest, no doubt earning me a new bruise to accompany all the others I have.

“Scarlett,” Rafe’s voice whispers, his dark eyes reflecting the scant moonlight that filters in through a small, grime-covered window. “What are you doing down here? You should be in bed.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words die in my throat. I’m acutely aware of the distance between us, the way he’s looking at me as if he can see right through the armour I’ve spent so long constructing.

It doesn’t help that beneath this robe, I’m wearing very little. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. But in an entirely different way to how I should.

This man puts the very fear of God into me. He’s huge, far bigger than Alex, far bigger than their father too. He’s all muscles, power, sheer fucking dominance and I don’t doubt he could break me with very little effort on his part.

And yet, beneath that fear, beneath that voice in my head that screams at me to run, I know Rafe is not my husband.

I know he is not his father either. Yes, there’s a ruthless side, but is it na?ve to think that he might be my saviour?

My knight in shining armour in whatever this horrific nightmare is?

“I, I couldn’t sleep,” I finally manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted some fresh air.

His lips tilt up into a smirk and his eyes look around us both. He doesn’t have to point out the irony of where we are, how this air is the complete opposite of ‘fresh’.

“I found this.” I add, holding the painting up for him to see, the horror of my discovery evident in my trembling hands.

Rafe steps closer, his gaze flickering from me to the canvas and back again.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, his tone serious.

“Over there,” I gesture toward the pile of paintings. “But there’s another one in my studio. Exactly the same.”

Rafe’s brow furrows, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “Show me.”

He’s not asking, not imploring. He’s ordering.

I bite down on the stupid thrill that realisation has on me. He’s my brother-in-law. Alex’s younger brother. And yet, despite the fact that I know he is dangerous, I feel safer in this moment with him than I do with my own husband. Christ, I really have lost it, haven’t I?

I lead him back through the cellar, the painting now tucked under his arm after he took it from me, because apparently even that weight might be too much for my “fragile state”. We climb the staircase in silence, and it feels like an uneasy truce settles between us.

When we reach the library, Rafe takes the lead, guiding me toward the door that leads to the upper levels of the mansion.

We make our way to my studio, and because it’s in one of the larger towers, the view out the windows is more captivating than ever. But in this moment even that haunting beauty does nothing for me. It’s the portrait, that damned horrific piece of art that holds my full attention.

Sat on its easel, it seems even more sinister in the darkness, its twisted visage a grotesque mockery of my former self.

Rafe examines the painting, his fingers tracing the contours of my painted face. “This is... disturbing,” he admits, his voice laced with an undercurrent of anger. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“You didn’t know?” I echo, my eyes searching his for any sign of deception. “But you said—you warned me about the cliffs, about being careful. You know something, Rafe. You have to.”

I hate how desperate I sound. I hate how much I need him to agree with me, to validate all of this. To confirm that I’m not mad, I’m not paranoid, that there is something very, very wrong here.

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “You need to go back to your room, Scarlett.” He says in a way that sounds so contrived. “It’s not safe for you. You need to…”

“I need to what?” I snap, finally losing what little patience I have left.

His hands grasp me, his grip every bit as brutal as I’d imagine it to be.

“This isn’t a game.” He snarls, shaking me like he’s trying to push some sense into me. “There are real consequences. Do you want yourself to be hurt more…?”

“More?” What does he mean by more? What the fuck does that mean?

He shakes his head, his eyes flashing bloody murder. “I am not your friend here, I am not your accomplice. I am not anything to you. Do you understand me?”

I take a step back, pulling myself free from his hands, but only because he allows me to. I’m torn between the desire to flee, and the desperate need for an ally in this house of horrors.

“I don’t need a friend.” I hiss. “I need help. Please, Rafe. You know what’s going on here, you know…”

“Shut up.” He snaps, slamming his hand over my mouth, beating those words back into me. “Shut up. Stop talking. Go back to your room and play the dutiful little wife before my brother finds out what you’ve been up to.”

What I’ve been up to? But I haven’t done anything. Is being out of bed at night such a cardinal sin as all that? I try to say just that but the words are a jumbled mess beneath his hold.

He pushes me in the direction of the door, watching as I tumble towards it without an ounce of compassion in his eyes.

“Go back to your bed, Scarlett. Go back to my brother.” He states, like he doesn’t know that Alex is not here. That for all intents and purposes, he and I are completely alone in this part of the house. That I could scream and fight and no one would ever hear me.

And he could do all manner of things, and no one would ever know.