Chapter 7: The Forbidden Wing

Emilia

I shouldn't be here. Every step I take down the darkened corridor of the west wing feels like an invitation for disaster, yet something pulls me forward, a strange compulsion I can't resist. The maid's warning echoes in my mind: "It's not safe." But why? What is it that they don't want me to see?

The air grows colder as I push deeper into the forbidden wing, the faint glow of a single candle casting eerie shadows along the walls. Dust motes dance in the dim light, making the entire hallway feel frozen in time, untouched by the life in the rest of the mansion. Everything here is silent, almost hauntingly so, and the quiet presses down on me, making me feel like an intruder in a world that doesn't belong to me.

At last, I reach the end of the hall, where a grand, towering painting hangs against the wall. The moment my eyes fall on it, my breath catches in my throat. The woman in the portrait—she's beautiful, ethereal almost, with an air of sadness that seems to seep from the very brushstrokes. And she looks… just like me.

I take a trembling step closer, unable to tear my gaze away. It's uncanny, the resemblance between us. Her hair, the color of deep mahogany, falls in soft waves around her shoulders, just like mine. Her eyes, that same haunting green, seem to look through me, as if they hold secrets I'll never understand. It's almost as if I'm looking at a mirror from another time, another life.

But there's something else, something darker. The expression on her face isn't serene or content—it's pained, as though she knew a sorrow too great for words. It leaves an ache in my chest, a feeling I can't explain, as though her sadness is somehow reaching out to touch me across the years.

A soft shuffle of footsteps pulls me back to reality, and I turn to see an elderly maid standing just behind me, her face pale, her expression one of barely concealed fear.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispers, her voice trembling. "No one is allowed in this wing, miss."

I take a steadying breath, refusing to be intimidated. "Who is she?" I ask, nodding toward the painting. "Why… why does she look like me?"

The maid's eyes dart to the portrait, then back to me, and she swallows hard. "That… that's Lady Seraphina," she says, her voice barely audible. "She was Lord Damien's former fiancée."

Her words send a shiver down my spine. Former fiancée. There's a heaviness to those words, something unsaid that I can feel hanging in the air between us. I can see the fear in her eyes, the way she clutches her hands as though trying to hold herself together.

"What happened to her?" I press, feeling an urgent need to understand. "Why isn't she here anymore?"

The maid glances down the hall, as if afraid someone might overhear us, then looks back at me, her expression grim. "It's not my place to speak ill of those who have passed," she whispers, but the sadness in her voice tells me more than any words could. "She… she died under mysterious circumstances. Some say it was an accident, but others… others whisper that she was driven to despair."

I feel a chill creep up my spine. I can sense the depth of grief etched in the lines of the painting, the pain hidden in the depths of Seraphina's gaze. It's as though her spirit lingers here, forever locked in a place she could never escape.

"What does this have to do with me?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper, feeling the weight of Seraphina's gaze on me even as I speak.

The maid reaches out, placing a frail, trembling hand on my arm. "Please, miss," she says, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. "If you value your life, leave this place. Don't stay here any longer than you must. This house… it holds secrets that no one should ever know."

I swallow hard, my heart pounding as her words sink in. Leave if I value my life. The warning in her tone, the look in her eyes—they're impossible to ignore.

"But Damien… my husband… he didn't mention any of this," I say, searching her face for answers. "Why wouldn't he tell me?"

The maid's gaze flickers with something almost like pity. "Lord Damien is a man of secrets," she whispers. "He doesn't share his burdens lightly, and those who come too close to the truth often find themselves lost… or worse."

The finality in her tone makes my blood run cold. I glance back at the painting, at Seraphina's sorrowful expression, and I feel a strange sense of connection, as though her fate is somehow tied to mine.

Before I can ask any more questions, the maid steps back, her face drawn and pale. "I've said too much already," she murmurs. "But heed my words, miss—trust no one, and guard your heart well. This house is a cage, and those who enter it rarely leave unscathed."

With that, she turns and disappears down the darkened corridor, leaving me alone with the painting—and the silent warning etched into Seraphina's haunting gaze.

I stare at her for a long, breathless moment, feeling the weight of the warning settle heavily over me. It's as though Seraphina herself is trying to tell me something, trying to pull me into a mystery I don't fully understand.

But one thing is clear: this house, this marriage, this life I've been thrust into—it's nothing like I thought it would be. And if Seraphina's tragic story is any indication, my own fate may already be written in shadows.

I turn to leave the forbidden wing, my heart pounding, but I can't shake the feeling that this is only the beginning—that somewhere within these walls, a truth waits to be uncovered, a truth that could destroy everything I've ever known.

And as I walk away, I swear I hear the faintest whisper, like a voice carried on the wind, echoing through the empty hall: "Be careful, Emilia… be careful."