London – Mayfair District
11:00 PM
The sky over London was weeping. A relentless rain washed over the cobblestone streets of Mayfair, and a thick fog clung to the ornate streetlamps like a shroud. Inside the Vanderbilt Manor, silence was the only guest—heavy, suffocating, and cold.
Eva stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, her silhouette reflected in the glass. She wore a slip dress of black silk that accentuated her pale skin and her haunting, hollow beauty. It had been exactly one year. One year since the authorities informed her that Alexander's private jet had vanished over the Atlantic. One year since her life had transitioned from a golden dream into a silent nightmare.
"Madam, the last of the guests have departed," the elderly butler whispered from the doorway, his voice thick with sympathy.
Eva nodded without turning. She stared into the pitch-black garden, feeling a strange chill seep into her bones—not the chill of winter, but the cold of absolute loneliness.
She made her way upstairs to her master suite. Every footstep echoed through the marble hallway, reminding her of Alexander's booming laughter, the way his presence used to fill every corner, and the promises he had made that were now nothing but dust. She entered the room and closed the heavy oak door behind her, but she froze instantly.
There was a scent in the air. A scent she could never mistake, even in a thousand years.
The aroma of Royal Oud mixed with expensive leather and fine tobacco.
It was Alexander's signature scent—the one he had custom-made for him in a small boutique in Paris. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently it felt like physical pain.
"Alexander?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she scanned the empty, dimly lit room. "Are you here?"
There was no one. Only the velvet bed curtains swaying slightly in the draft from the balcony door... a door she was certain she had locked before heading downstairs.
She rushed to the balcony to close it, but her eyes caught something on the nightstand. It hadn't been there two hours ago.
A single blood-red rose, fresh as if just plucked from the earth, lay beside a small black envelope. The envelope was sealed with red wax, stamped with the Vanderbilt family crest—the soaring hawk.
With trembling fingers, she broke the seal. Inside was a single card, written in a hand her heart recognized before her eyes did. The handwriting was slanted, bold, and sharp.
"My dearest Eva...
Black suits your grief, but it hides the beauty I once worshiped. Do not stand before the window for too long; the London cold is unkind to such delicate skin.
Watch those around you closely. The wolves are circling the den, and they lack the mercy I once showed.
I never truly left you... I have simply become your shadow."
The card slipped from Eva's nerveless fingers. She sprinted to the balcony, gripping the cold stone railing as she peered down into the vast, dark gardens.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the grounds. For a fraction of a second, she saw him. A tall man in a long, dark wool coat, standing perfectly still beneath the ancient oak tree.
He wasn't hiding. He was watching.
As the second bolt of lightning tore across the sky, she caught the glint of his eyes—sharp, piercing, and fixed on her with a terrifying intensity.
And in the blink of an eye, the figure vanished. The gardens were empty once more, leaving behind only the rhythmic drumming of the rain and a scent of oud that refused to fade.