Chapter 2
The soft, hollow thud of the two knocks seemed to echo in Diana’s mind, though the raucous laughter of the dining room threatened to drown it out. She stood paralyzed, her fair skin turning pale. She knew the blueprints of the mansion; there was nothing behind this wall but an old, sealed storage room.
Vincent, whose cold, observant eyes rarely missed a single shift in his environment, turned his head. His sharp jaw tightened as he noticed the extinguished candle and the sheer terror freezing the housemaid’s elegant posture.
He took a slow, measured step toward the console, leaving the immediate proximity of the dining tables. Elara followed closely, the sculpted satin of her evening gown rustling against the hardwood floor.
Vincent looked directly into Diana’s eyes, his gaze piercing through her fear. The low hum of the party continued for a fraction of a second before the sheer gravity of his presence commanded absolute attention.
"Diana. What’s behind that painting?"
Vincent’s deep voice was quiet and deliberate, yet it sliced through the room like a blade. Every single guest stopped eating and speaking. The clinking of fine porcelain and crystal stemware ceased instantly. Dozens of capos and their wives turned their heads, their rosy faces drawn in sudden, silent apprehension.
Elara stepped forward, stepping slightly in front of Vincent. She met his intense gaze with a faint, reassuring smile, though her fair complexion had lost a fraction of its color. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her ornate diamond bracelet, the metal biting into her skin.
"Just a draft, darling," Elara said, her voice smooth and dripping with manufactured sweetness.
Diana’s heart pounded wildly. She looked at the small exterior latch concealed just beneath the heavy gilded frame—a latch she had never noticed before tonight. Her instincts screamed at her to step away, to obey the mistress of the house. But the desperate, human reality of the two knocks propelled her forward.
With a trembling hand, Diana reached out, released the metal latch, and pulled the hinged portrait outward.
The heavy frame swung open like a door, revealing a narrow, dust-choked room hidden in the walls. Standing inside the shadows was Natalie Crowne.
Vincent raised a steady, powerful arm straight across Elara’s path, a physical iron bar keeping his mistress away from the hidden room, away from Diana, and away from the woman stepping into the golden light.
Diana looked directly at Vincent, her breath hitching in her throat. "Your wife."
Natalie stepped forward. She wore a worn, filthy cardigan over a simple, faded dress. Her long hair hung loose and unkempt, and her bare feet were bruised on the hardwood. She was pale, her fair skin nearly translucent, and utterly exhausted, yet remarkably uninjured. She had been presumed dead for an entire year.
Natalie looked directly past her husband, her hollow eyes fixing entirely on Elara. Tears gathered rapidly along Natalie’s lower eyelids, brimming with a year's worth of agony.
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"You made him mourn me," Natalie said. Her voice remained quiet, laced with a restrained, shattering disbelief.
Vincent looked briefly toward his wife, the ghost he had buried in his heart. Then, he slowly shifted his cold, observant gaze toward Elara, followed by a slight, deliberate turn of his head. The small neck tattoo shifted as his sharp jaw tightened into granite. His expression settled into cold, controlled fury. He held Elara's eyes in a silent, unwavering stare.
