When Celeste opened her eyes, the world felt... wrong.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust, like a place recently cleaned but long abandoned. For a moment, she couldn't move. Her limbs felt heavy, her mouth dry. There was a dull ache at the back of her head, spreading slowly behind her eyes until every breath seemed to echo inside her head.
She tried to sit up, but the movement only made her vision spin. The curtains were drawn tightly across the windows, sealing the room slightly in darkness. Her throat worked soundlessly before she found her voice.
"Hello?"
The word came out cracked and vanished almost immediately. No one answered. The room was empty except for a narrow bed, a dresser, and a small table near the door where a glass of water sat untouched. She didn't remember coming here. She didn't remember lying down.
The next time she woke, the glass had been replaced. Someone had been in the room. She tested the door, but it refused to open. A tray of food sat neatly beside it when she tried again later. She didn't hear footsteps or catch a shadow moving under the crack, it was as if the house was holding its breath.
She lost track of time gradually.
Sometimes she'd wake to find the tray gone, replaced by another. Sometimes she'd hear faint movement beyond the door, but no one spoke, or came in.
The mirror on the far wall showed her a version of herself she didn't recognize. Pale skin, dark circles, hair tangled and dull. Her lips were cracked, her collarbones sharp beneath the thin fabric of her gown. She stared for a long time before turning away.
It was strange, how quickly the silence began to sound alive. At some point, she stopped calling out. The world outside might have ended, and she wouldn't have known.
On what felt like the fourth or fifth day, the door finally opened. It happened quietly, so quietly that, at first, Celeste thought she was imagining it. Light spilled in from the hallway, too bright after days of dimness. She blinked against it, her breath catching when a silhouette stepped through the door.
The woman who entered didn't belong to the silence that had kept Celeste company. She moved as though she owned the air itself. Pearls gleamed against the smooth line of her neck, her hair pale gold and perfectly arranged.
"Oh, you poor thing." The woman's voice was rich. "I'm so terribly sorry about this. What an appalling way to treat a guest."
Celeste's fingers tightened around the blanket as the woman crossed the room. There was grace in her movements.
"I told them you were to be cared for, not imprisoned," she continued, her tone laced with outrage. She turned toward the doorway, "I'll be speaking to the servants about this at once."
When she turned back, her expression softened. "You must be frightened, my dear," she said, lowering herself to the edge of the bed. "Please know that you're safe here." Her hands found Celeste's, warm, gently enclosing her fingers as though she were comforting a child.
Celeste's throat tightened. "Where am I?" she asked. "And why am I locked up in here?"
Margaret sighed. "My nephew's servants can be... intense about security," she said, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. "They mean well, of course. But sometimes their loyalty outpaces their sense. I'm truly sorry you were made to endure this. I came as soon as I could."
Celeste studied her face, nothing in her posture hinted at deceit, and yet something about her perfection unsettled her.
"Then where... exactly is here?" Celeste asked again.
Margaret's eyes softened. "You're in the Blackwell's estate, my dear."
The name hit her like a slow shiver.
Margaret went on before she could speak. "And I'm Margaret Blackwell, your aunt by marriage." She smiled faintly, as though delivering good news. "You're married to my nephew, Aiden Blackwell."
Celeste froze.
"I—what?"
Margaret gave a delicate laugh. "I know, it must be confusing. Everything was... rather sudden. But you are safe here. You're family now."
Family. The word tasted strange, like something she shouldn't swallow.
Aiden Blackwell?
Everyone in Blackridge knew that name, the heir to the late Richard Blackwell's empire. The mansion on the hill belonged to him. The vast stretch of land that divided the town from the forest. His father had been the richest man the world had ever known, and when he died, all that wealth had gone to his only son.
But that wasn't what made the name so heavy. The heir to the great Richard's fortune was cursed with madness. People called him the Mad heir. After his father's death, his uncle and aunt took him in and soon after, the boy vanished from sight altogether. Locked away in the mansion, hidden from the world. Some said it was for his own safety, others said it was for everyone else's. Celeste had heard the rumors growing up.
Her lips parted wordlessly before she managed, "That can't be right." Celeste's heartbeat quickened. Her family had sent her here? They'd signed her to this? Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
No. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe they'd been misled. Maybe there'd been a mistake, some dreadful misunderstanding. But the woman sitting calmly on her bed, pearls gleaming and smile steady, made that hope shatter.
"I didn't know who I was marrying," Celeste whispered.
Margaret's expression softened instantly, "Of course you didn't, dear," she murmured. "Your aunt must have thought it better that way to not make you worry."
Celeste's hands trembled where they rested in her lap. The thought of staying here, of sharing a name, a life, with someone like that made her throat close. The stories she'd heard of him pressed like cold fingers around her neck.
"I-I can't stay married to him," she said, her voice barely more than a breath. Then firmer, almost pleading, "I want to leave. Please—just tell me what I need to do to get a divorce."
For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Margaret's features didn't move. Then she sighed, soft and mournful, her lashes lowering as though the words had wounded her personally.
"I understand, my dear," she said at last, her tone filled with sympathy. "Truly, I do. It breaks my heart that you feel unsafe... but I won't stop you."
Relief settled in Celeste's chest, her shoulders slumped, the tension in her body loosening just a fraction.
But then Margaret added, "You'll just need Aiden's signature to make it official."
The relief died halfway.
"Oh..." Celeste whispered.
Was it possible getting a mad man to sign divorce papers?
Margaret's smile returned. "But before that, let's take care of you first," she said, rising smoothly to her feet. "You must be exhausted. A bath, some food, and rest. We'll discuss everything properly after you've regained your strength."
With a single glance toward the hallway, she called out, "Prepare a proper room for Mrs. Blackwell. Something cheerful. She's family now."
The words echoed faintly in the corridor beyond, followed by the sound of unseen footsteps.
When Margaret turned back to Celeste, the sharpness had melted from her expression. What remained was all gentleness and grace, a picture of kindness so carefully composed it almost felt painted on.
"Everything will be all right, dear," she said softly, taking Celeste's hand one last time. "You have my word."