The mansion revealed itself slowly, as if it preferred to be learned rather than seen.
Selene realized this as she followed Camille down the eastern corridor, her footsteps muted by thick rugs that swallowed sound. The house did not echo. It absorbed. Even her breathing felt intrusive, too loud in a space designed to erase presence.
Morning light streamed through tall windows, pale and distant, filtered by sheer curtains that softened nothing. The walls were stone and dark wood, lined with art that was not decorative but deliberate. Portraits of men with cold eyes and rigid postures. Landscapes devoid of people. Abstract pieces that made her uneasy without her understanding why.
"This wing is yours," Camille said, her voice level, professional, neither warm nor cruel. "You will sleep here. Dine here when meals are not taken with Mr. Moreau. You may walk the gardens during approved hours."
Selene slowed, her gaze skimming over closed doors. "Approved by who?"
Camille stopped and turned to face her fully. Up close, she was striking in a restrained way. Her features were sharp, her expression permanently composed, as though emotion had been trained out of her.
"By me," she said. "And by him."
Selene swallowed. "What happens if I don't ask?"
Camille held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. "You will be stopped."
"How?"
"Immediately."
They resumed walking.
The corridor opened into a sitting room large enough to host a gathering, though it was empty now. Furniture sat arranged with mathematical precision. Nothing was out of place. Nothing invited touch. A fireplace dominated one wall, unlit, its stone surface unmarred by soot, as though fires here were controlled events rather than comforts.
Selene crossed to the window without thinking.
Beyond the glass stretched manicured grounds, vast and immaculate. Trees aligned in perfect rows. Gravel paths curving with deliberate elegance. High walls beyond that, tall enough to erase the world outside.
"Is there a gate?" Selene asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Can I use it?"
Camille did not answer immediately. "Not alone."
Selene nodded, her reflection ghosting over the glass. She looked small here, swallowed by scale and intention. The house was not hostile in obvious ways. It did not threaten her. It simply did not acknowledge her autonomy.
"Your wardrobe has been transferred," Camille said, gesturing toward a door Selene had not noticed. "Anything unsuitable has been removed."
Selene turned sharply. "Removed how?"
"Returned, stored, or discarded."
Discarded.
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't give permission."
"You no longer need to," Camille replied calmly.
The room beyond the door was a dressing room larger than Selene's old apartment bedroom. Clothing hung in careful order. Darker colors dominated. Structured fabrics. Dresses that spoke of wealth and restraint rather than personality. Shoes arranged beneath glass shelves. Jewelry laid out like instruments.
Her chest tightened again.
"This isn't my style," she said.
"It will be," Camille replied. "Mr. Moreau prefers consistency."
Selene let out a breath that trembled despite her effort to control it. "And what do I prefer?"
Camille regarded her, then said, "That is no longer the priority."
They moved on.
The tour continued through rooms that blurred together in their grandeur. A private library filled with books Selene doubted anyone read for pleasure. A dining room with a table long enough to make loneliness ceremonial. A hallway lined with closed doors Camille did not acknowledge.
"Those rooms?" Selene asked.
"Restricted."
"Why?"
"Because they are."
The answer was final.
As they walked, Selene became acutely aware of the cameras. Not obvious ones. Subtle. Reflections in polished surfaces. Small black domes tucked into corners. The soft hum of surveillance beneath the house's silence.
"You're watching me," Selene said.
"Yes," Camille replied.
"How often?"
"Always."
The word settled deep in Selene's stomach.
They reached the end of the wing where tall double doors opened into a garden enclosed by stone and iron. The air shifted the moment Selene stepped outside. It smelled of earth and clipped hedges. The sky above was pale blue, deceptively open.
"This is the furthest you may go without escort," Camille said.
Selene walked forward anyway, stopping just short of the iron boundary. She wrapped her arms around herself, the ring on her finger catching the light.
She still wasn't used to its weight.
"Does he ever come out here?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Does he watch from inside?"
Camille's silence answered that question.
Selene turned. "Why are you here?"
Camille studied her, something unreadable passing briefly across her eyes. "Because Mr. Moreau requires order."
"And you provide it."
"Yes." Selene hesitated, then asked, "Do you agree with him?"
Camille did not answer immediately. When she did, her voice was steady. "Agreement is irrelevant."
They stood in silence for a moment longer before Camille gestured back toward the doors. "Lunch will be served shortly. Mr. Moreau will not be joining you."
A strange flicker of relief and disappointment passed through Selene at once.
As they walked back inside, Selene felt it again. That sense of being watched. Not just by cameras. By the house itself. By the walls that had been built to contain power, not shelter life.
Her room waited at the end of the hall. Larger than before. More refined. Just as empty of warmth.
Camille paused at the threshold. "There are rules you have not yet learned," she said. "But you will. This house teaches quickly."
Selene met her gaze. "And if I don't learn fast enough?"
Camille's expression softened only by the smallest degree. "Then the house will remind you."
She left.
Selene stood alone, the door closing with a quiet finality behind her.
She moved to the center of the room and turned slowly, taking it all in. The bed. The windows. The perfect, oppressive stillness.
This was not a home. Homes held laughter, clutter, mistakes. Homes bent around the people inside them.
This place did not bend.It expected obedience.
Selene sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing the ring once more. She was a wife in a house built for kings and monsters.
And somewhere beyond these walls, Adrien Moreau was watching, ensuring the cage held.