But three hours later, she was still staring at the ceiling of her studio apartment in Eastpoint, heart pounding like the ghost of some memory had crawled under her skin. She knew this feeling. It was the same one she had the night her sister Celia died.
No. Disappeared. That's what Eliana called it now. No matter what the obituary said, or the hushed conversations at the funeral. There were too many unanswered questions, too many things her mother refused to explain.
And now this? Just a call, no apology, no explanation, just: We need you.
The next morning, she was on a train headed south, toward the place she swore never to see again.
⸻
Willowmere had always looked like a dream. Tucked behind gates and shielded by manicured hedges, it was a sprawling estate of ivy-covered stone and rose-colored windows, more castle than home. It belonged to the Devereux family-her mother's in-laws, though Eliana had never known the full story. They didn't live there, but they owned it, and sometimes her mother walked the halls like she did too.
Eliana stepped out of the black town car, gripping the handles of her suitcase tighter than necessary. The air was too still. The place felt frozen in time.
A woman in a gray dress met her at the steps.
"Miss Hart," she said with a quick nod. "Your mother is waiting in the east parlor."
"She's alive, then," Eliana muttered, walking past her.
The parlor hadn't changed. Same velvet chairs, same perfume soaked into the cushions, same towering portraits of dead people Eliana had never met. Her mother sat beneath a crystal chandelier, dressed like she was expecting royalty.
"Eliana," Grace said, standing with a stiff smile.
"Let's skip the performance, please." She dropped her suitcase by the door. "What's so urgent that you broke radio silence?"
Grace tilted her chin, unbothered. "You're getting married."
Eliana laughed. Not the amused kind. The kind that came from somewhere cracked and furious. "Come again?"
"The wedding is this weekend. You'll be marrying Adrien Devereux."
It felt like someone had knocked the air out of her chest. "I haven't seen Adrien since I was sixteen. And even then, we barely said two words to each other. Why would I marry-"
"It's already arranged," Grace interrupted. "The contracts are signed. You'll thank me, eventually."
"I don't care if the Pope signed it. I'm not marrying anyone, especially not one of them."
Grace stood. "This is not up for debate. You were never supposed to leave in the first place. And now, you're the only one who can repair what's broken."
Eliana stepped back, voice rising. "Repair what, Mother? Our family is a mess of lies and secrets. What exactly do you want me to fix? Your reputation?"
"No," Grace said, coolly. "Yours."
The room spun. Eliana turned away before she said something unforgivable.
"That boy's family buried your sister, Eliana," Grace added sharply. "They buried her with silence. This is your chance to make them answer for it. From the inside."
Eliana froze.
Now that was a new card to play.
"What do you mean, 'from the inside'?"
But Grace didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped toward a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Eliana. It was sealed in red wax, and her heart stopped when she saw the name.
Celia.
Her sister's name. In her own handwriting.
Shaking, Eliana opened it. The paper was old. Folded, re-folded, smudged at the corners.
"If you're reading this, they made you marry him too. Don't trust Adrien. Don't trust any of them. Especially not Mother. I found something-something terrible. I hope you never do. But if you're in Willowmere, it's too late."
Eliana's breath hitched.
This letter had been written before Celia died. Before the fall from the cliff. Before the funeral no one spoke of.
She looked up at her mother.
Grace was already walking away.
⸻
The next time Eliana saw Adrien, it was at the rehearsal dinner.
He was taller than she remembered. More angular. There was a cold edge to him now, like a statue carved from something sharp and ancient. His eyes didn't meet hers at first-not until they were introduced like strangers.
"Eliana," he said simply, nodding.
She wanted to hate him.
But something in his eyes-guilt, grief, maybe something else-made her pause.
"So this is what betrayal wears," she said, not caring who heard.
He didn't flinch. "You don't know anything yet."
"Is that a threat?"
"A warning."
Then he walked away, leaving her alone on the steps of her own wedding rehearsal.
⸻
Later that night, she couldn't sleep.
She wandered the halls of Willowmere until she found herself in Celia's old room.
Everything had been packed away, covered in white cloths. But one drawer was left open. Inside it, a notebook.
Celia's.
Eliana opened it, flipping past sketches and old poetry until she found the last page.
A name was scrawled across it.
Claudia Devereux.
Below it: "She knew. She let it happen."
The door creaked behind her.
Eliana spun, heart in her throat.
But the hallway was empty.
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