Adrian Veyne's penthouse was a fortress of glass and steel, perched above the city like a crown. He had designed it to be untouchable—every surface polished, every detail precise, every inch a testament to control. Yet as he led Elara through its doors, the fortress felt fragile.
The elevator opened into a vast living space, walls of glass overlooking the skyline. The city glittered below, but the air inside was heavy, thick with silence. Adrian's footsteps echoed against marble floors, but Elara's presence seemed to swallow sound.
"This is where you'll live now," Adrian said, voice clipped. "Everything you need is here. You'll find no excuses."
Elara's eyes swept the room, lingering on the shadows that clung to corners. "It's beautiful," she murmured. "But beauty doesn't keep them out."
Adrian ignored her, striding to the bar. He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid steady in his hand. He had faced chaos before—markets collapsing, rivals scheming—but he had always found order in the numbers, in the contracts, in the empire he built. This was different. This was disorder without logic.
Elara moved to the window, her reflection shimmering faintly against the glass. Adrian watched her, irritation prickling beneath his composure. "You speak of them as if they're real," he said. "But I see nothing. I hear whispers, yes, but whispers can be explained. Stress. Imagination. Tricks of the mind."
Her gaze remained on the city. "Then look closer."
Adrian frowned, setting his glass aside. He approached the window, standing beside her. The skyline glittered, but in the reflection, something was wrong. His own image stood tall, sharp, commanding—but behind Elara's reflection, shadows pressed close. Faceless figures, blurred outlines, mouths open in silent screams.
Adrian's breath caught. He turned sharply, scanning the room. Nothing. Empty space. Yet in the reflection, the figures remained, crowding around Elara like mourners at a grave.
He slammed his palm against the glass. The reflection rippled, the figures shifting, their mouths opening wider. A faint whisper threaded through the silence: Adrian.
His name. Spoken by voices that did not belong to the living.
Adrian staggered back, fury surging. "Enough!" His voice thundered through the penthouse. "This is my home. My empire. I won't have it tainted by illusions."
Elara turned, her eyes steady. "They're not illusions. They're bound to me. And now, they're bound to you."
The lights flickered. The chandelier above trembled, crystals chiming like bells. Adrian's drink glass shattered on the bar, shards scattering across the floor.
Adrian's composure cracked. He strode forward, gripping Elara's arm. "You'll tell me everything. Now."
Her gaze met his, sorrow flickering beneath calm. "My family made a vow generations ago. A promise broken. The spirits claimed us, binding themselves to our bloodline. Every bride carries them. Every groom inherits them."
Adrian's grip tightened. "Then why marry me? Why bring this curse into my world?"
Elara's voice was soft, almost pleading. "Because the curse chose you the moment you signed. I didn't bring it. You invited it."
The words struck him harder than any blow. Adrian released her, stepping back, his mind racing. He had signed contracts all his life, binding empires with ink. But this—this was a contract written in shadows.
The whispers rose again, louder, pressing against the walls. Adrian's penthouse trembled, mirrors cracking, lights flickering. He braced himself, fury burning in his chest.
"This is my empire," he growled. "And I'll fight for it. I don't care what curse binds you. I don't care what ghosts whisper. They'll learn Adrian Veyne doesn't surrender."
Elara's eyes glistened, sorrow deepening. "Then prepare yourself. Because they don't fight fair."
The chandelier crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand shards. The penthouse plunged into darkness.
And in the glass walls, Adrian saw them—dozens of figures, faceless and reaching, pressing against the reflection as though desperate to break through.
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