The morning in London offered no sanctuary. A heavy, leaden sky pressed against the arched windows of the Vanderbilt Manor, turning the grand hallways into tunnels of grey shadow. Inside, the silence was so absolute it felt physical—a weight that Eva carried on her hunched shoulders as she sat in the drawing room.
Her fingers were white-knuckled, gripping the edges of the black envelope so hard the paper began to crinkle. She didn't just look tired; she looked fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain that had been shattered and glued back together too many times. Every time the floorboards creaked, her head would snap toward the door, her eyes wide with a haunting mixture of terror and a desperate, starving hunger for a miracle. She wasn't breathing; she was merely surviving between gasps of air that still tasted of Alexander's Royal Oud.
The heavy oak doors groaned open, and Marcus Vanderbilt strode in. He didn't enter so much as he invaded, his polished oxfords clicking with a predatory rhythm against the marble. He wore a sharp, charcoal-grey suit—a stark contrast to the mourning black that filled the house. His smirk was a thin, blade-like line, and he moved with the arrogant confidence of a man who believed he had already won.
He tossed a leather-bound folder onto the mahogany table between them. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Sign it, Eva," Marcus said, his voice smooth and devoid of any warmth. He leaned forward, his shadow stretching over her like a dark wing. "The company is hemorrhaging money. The board is restless. This grief of yours is becoming an expensive liability. Sign the shares over to me, and you can keep this mausoleum to rot in peace."
Eva looked at the document, but she didn't see the words. She saw the greed dancing in Marcus's eyes—the way his pupils dilated as he looked at the symbols of power he so desperately craved. She felt a sudden, icy stillness wash over her. It was the feeling of a cornered animal realizing its teeth were sharper than the hunter's.
"Alexander isn't even cold in the ground of your memory, Marcus," she whispered, her voice trembling but carrying a new, jagged edge. "And already you come to strip his corpse."
Marcus laughed, a dry, hollow sound. He reached out a hand, intending to pat her shoulder in a mock gesture of comfort, but he never touched her.
Suddenly, the massive crystal chandelier above his head began to shiver. The thousands of glass droplets chimed with a ghostly, high-pitched ring. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the room plunged into a suffocating, absolute darkness.
In that heartbeat of blackness, Marcus's arrogance vanished. He felt a sudden, freezing draft against the nape of his neck—a cold so intense it felt like the touch of a dead man's hand. A voice, a mere vibration of air that vibrated through his very bones, hissed into his ear: "Touch what is mine, and I will bury you beside me."
Marcus let out a strangled gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He scrambled backward, his chair toppling over with a crash. When the lights buzzed back to life a second later, Marcus was leaning against the wall, gasping for air. His face, once full of smug superiority, was now the color of ash. His eyes darted around the empty corners of the room, wide with a raw, primal fear.
"Who's there?" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "Eva, what kind of sick trick is this?"
Eva stood up slowly. She didn't feel the fear that was paralyzing Marcus. Instead, she felt a strange, magnetic warmth radiating from the air behind her. She stood taller, her chin lifting, as if she were leaning back against an invisible chest that gave her the strength to face the world.
"The house knows who belongs here, Marcus," she said, her voice echoing with a haunting authority. "And it knows you don't."
Marcus didn't stay to argue. He grabbed his briefcase with trembling hands and stumbled out of the room, his footsteps frantic as he fled the unseen presence.
The silence returned, but it was different now. It was no longer empty. Eva turned back to the table, and her breath hitched. There, lying precisely where Marcus's hand had been a moment ago, was a platinum signet ring.
It was warm. It pulsed with a familiar heat, as if it had just been removed from a living finger. It was Alexander's ring.
Eva fell to her knees, clutching the warm metal to her lips, her tears finally breaking through. She wasn't just crying for what she had lost; she was crying because she could feel him—angry, protective, and very much alive—watching her from the shadows.