The ring lay where it fell, glinting in the pale afternoon light, as if mocking her disbelief. Eliana stared at it, the name Elora etched so finely it might as well have been a whisper from the grave.
"I don't know what kind of twisted game this is," she said, her voice shaking, "but it stops now."
Adrien didn't move. "I thought you'd say that."
"Oh, really? Because if you knew me like you claim, you'd know I don't respond well to being gaslit."
"I'm not gaslighting you, Eliana." He finally stepped closer. "You've seen the signs. The dreams. The places that feel too familiar. The diary. Your sister's warnings. None of it's coincidence."
She wanted to scream at him, but her mouth stayed shut.
Because a part of her—deep, buried beneath all the fear and rage—had seen it. A strange pull toward the Maddox estate. That flicker of recognition when she first saw Adrien, masked in hate and suspicion. The way her fingers sometimes trembled around antique doorknobs, as though muscle memory remembered turning them before.
"You said we've done this before." Her voice was quieter now. "That we've been married. How many times?"
"I don't know." His eyes darkened. "But I remember flashes. So do you."
She scoffed. "And you expect me to believe in past lives now?"
"You believed in ghosts the day you moved in here," he replied. "Don't pretend you haven't felt it. The whispers. The cold that comes from nowhere. The missing time. You think it's just this family's trauma?"
He pointed to the diary still sticking slightly from under her mattress. "Read more. She knew. She remembered before it killed her."
Eliana stared at the ring again.
Elora Vale.
She knelt, picking it up like it might bite. The silver was warm now, despite having touched nothing. Almost pulsing.
"You should leave," she said finally. "I need time."
Adrien hesitated, then nodded. "I'll be in the west study."
The moment the door clicked shut, she let her breath fall out in one long exhale and slumped to the floor. For a minute, silence returned. Then, curiosity burned.
⸻
Back in the diary, her sister's final entries looked like they'd been written in a rush. The handwriting slanted, nearly illegible.
Elora isn't dead. She's me. She's us. This house knows her. It remembers every version of her. Every vow broken. Every bloodied wedding night. That's the curse. That's the pattern.
And Adrien… he's not what he seems either. He's been there every time.
Eliana flipped to the next page. It had been torn out.
No… not torn. Cut. Cleanly. As if someone had wanted to erase whatever came next.
Her fingers curled into fists. "What the hell is going on in this house?"
A loud knock startled her.
This time, it wasn't Adrien.
Esther burst in, cheeks flushed, her hair windblown. "You're not safe here."
"You think I don't know that by now?"
"No, Eliana. I mean right now. You're being watched."
"By who?"
Esther walked to the window and drew the curtain aside. "That gardener? He's not staff. He's a tracker. They've been watching your movements, logging them."
"Who are they?"
Esther hesitated. "The Maddox Council. The ones who keep the lineage clean. Unbroken. They've been watching Adrien for years, waiting to see if he'd obey the oath. Or break it. You—Elora—you were supposed to die. In every life. Because if you don't, the curse breaks."
Eliana froze. "You're saying… I'm meant to die? On purpose?"
"In every life you've shared with him, you've died on your wedding night. That's the only way they maintain the power of the house. It feeds on grief. On tragedy."
Eliana couldn't breathe.
"What changed this time?" she whispered.
"You survived."
Esther looked over her shoulder, terrified now. "And that's why they're coming."
⸻
Later that night, the mansion was too quiet. Adrien hadn't returned. Or maybe he had, and the walls simply swallowed him like they did everything else.
Eliana stood in the hall outside the family portrait room, one she'd passed a dozen times but never dared enter.
She opened the door.
Dust spilled into her lungs. Candles lined the shelves, unlit. Paintings from every generation stared down—patriarchs and brides, each captured with unsettling realism.
Then she saw it.
A portrait, half-shrouded, tucked into the corner.
The woman in it looked just like her.
But the man beside her wasn't Adrien. He was older. Sharper. Familiar, but from nowhere she could place.
"Elora Vale and Lord Maddox, 1935," the plaque read.
She touched the edge.
The moment she did, the air around her shifted. Cold slammed into her back. A whisper pressed against her ear like breath.
"Do not trust him."
She spun.
Nothing.
Just the silence again. Watching. Waiting.
Eliana backed out of the room slowly, the chill clinging to her bones like frostbite.
⸻
Later, as she lay in bed—ring on her finger now, against her better judgment—a scream echoed through the halls.
She jolted upright.
It wasn't a dream.
Another scream, this time louder.
She ran barefoot into the corridor, heart racing.
A maid was sprawled on the floor, eyes wide, mouth open. No blood. No wounds. Just… dead.
Esther appeared behind her, panting. "They're testing the bond."
"What bond?"
"The one between you and Adrien. If he remembers, if he chooses love over obedience… it breaks the curse."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then you're next."