The clap of his hands echoed sharply, snapping me out of my thoughts. Without a word, Artemis—the girl with the fiery red hair from earlier—entered. Her presence was just as commanding as before, and she didn't waste time waiting for pleasantries.
"Take her to her room," he said simply, his tone cold, clipped.
Artemis nodded once, motioning for me to follow. Her pace was brisk, her footsteps echoing in the long hallways. The silence between us was deafening, and I couldn't help but notice how perfectly she moved, as if she had been trained to command every step she took.
We passed through what felt like an endless maze of corridors. The first hallway was dimly lit, with walls lined with ancient paintings that seemed to watch us as we walked. The second was brighter, its windows offering glimpses of the night sky and a vast, moonlit garden below. By the time we reached the third floor, the air felt colder, heavier.
When Artemis finally stopped in front of a massive door, she didn't say a word. Instead, she pushed it open, and I was immediately engulfed by the sight inside.
The room was breathtaking.
Pink walls, soft and elegant, framed the space, while a grand king-sized bed dominated the center. Its blankets and pillows looked impossibly soft, as if they had been woven from clouds. The sheer size of the room left me stunned—it was bigger than any space I'd ever called mine.
To the side, a doorway led to a walk-in closet that seemed endless, filled with clothes that shimmered even under the faint light. Another door revealed a bathroom so pristine and luxurious that it felt like something out of a dream. Marble counters, golden fixtures, and a deep tub that looked big enough to swim in.
"Is this… for me?" I whispered, unable to hide the awe in my voice.
"Yes, it's yours," Artemis replied with a neutral expression. "Go inside. I'll send some maids to help you get settled."
She didn't linger, leaving me alone in the overwhelming beauty of the room.
I hadn't even fully taken it in when, as promised, a small group of maids entered. They moved with practiced precision, their faces blank but their eyes filled with a quiet nervousness.
"Let me handle it myself," I offered, hoping to spare them the trouble.
They hesitated, their gazes darting between me and each other. The fear on their faces was almost tangible, as if refusing to fulfill their task might have dire consequences. I sighed and gave in, sitting on the edge of the bed as they bustled around me.
Their hands were gentle but firm as they guided me to the bathroom. They bathed me as though I were some delicate doll, scrubbing my skin until it glowed and carefully working through my hair. When they were finished, they dried and styled it, letting it fall in soft blonde waves over my shoulders.
Then came the nightgown.
My cheeks burned when I saw it—a delicate, sheer piece of fabric that offered no modesty at all. The material clung to my skin, the outline of my body fully visible. My nipples, unmistakable beneath the fabric, hardened in the cool air, adding to my humiliation.
I tried to protest, but they wouldn't hear it. They placed the gown over me with careful hands, adjusting the fit until it hung just right.
"Thank you," I murmured awkwardly when they were done. They only nodded, quickly retreating from the room as though their job here was done.
Once they were gone, I sank into the bed. It was everything it looked to be—soft, warm, and comforting in a way I had never experienced before. The room around me, the bed beneath me, it all felt surreal. Could this really be mine?
I closed my eyes, letting exhaustion pull me under.
But my peace didn't last.
A suffocating weight pressed down on me, dragging me out of sleep. My eyes flew open, and I froze. He was there.
The man with the whiskey-brown eyes.
He hovered over me, his shirtless body illuminated by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the window. His features were sharp, intimidating, and his eyes held a fire that burned straight into my soul.
I couldn't move.
His arm was braced beside my neck, keeping his weight off me, but his presence alone was overwhelming. His eyes scanned me—my hair, my face, my body. When they landed on the sheer fabric of my nightgown, where my nipples were clearly visible, I burned with shame. My cheeks flamed red, my body frozen under his gaze.
I wanted to speak, to push him away, but I couldn't. I was caught in his spell, a prey trapped under the watchful eyes of a predator.
When he spoke, his voice shattered the silence like a blade cutting through glass. "You're not Diane Morgan, are you?"
The air felt heavy, my lungs struggling to pull in enough breath.
"She's supposed to have black hair," he continued, his voice low and accusatory. "But you… you're blonde."
His words felt like an accusation, and panic surged through me. Without thinking, I scrambled out of the bed, shoving him away with trembling hands. "I'm Diane! I'm Diane Morgan!"
His expression didn't change. He stood there, unmoved, his eyes filled with disdain.
"Do you think I'm a fool?" he asked, his tone sharp and cutting. "Do you think I can't see through this charade? From the moment I saw you, I knew you weren't her. I just wanted to see how far you'd go. To see if you kidnapped my wife, or if your family is involved in this."
I stared at him, the weight of his accusations crushing me.
"Where is Diane?" he demanded, his voice growing louder, harsher. "And who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
I couldn't answer. My mind raced, but there was nowhere to turn. The truth I had been avoiding, the lies I had been telling myself, were unraveling all at once. I was in way over my head, and now there was no escape.
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