PROLOGUE
Pressing her back against the cold wall, she felt the chill of the night seep into her bones as the tall figure loomed ominously in the shadows before her.
"It was you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"That's right. It's me. Who else could it possibly be?" the figure replied, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. The moonlight streaming through the open door illuminated part of his face—a sharp, handsome profile tinged with a trace of ruthless intent.
As he moved closer, she retreated in panic until her back met the railing of the balcony. The realization that there was no escape brought tears streaming down her cheeks. Defeated, she collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with quiet sobs.
"I thought I knew you," she murmured, her voice trembling.
A hand brushed against her navel, trailing upward. It grazed her breasts lightly before coming to rest on her face, tilting her head upward until her gaze met his.
"And you do," he said softly. "But only the part of me I allowed someone as precious as you to see."
Another hand slipped beneath her dress, resting on the bare skin of her waist. He tilted her chin further, forcing her to meet the piercing intensity of his eyes.
"Anyone who sins is meant to face punishment, isn't that what the nuns taught you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerously calm.
"Yes," she croaked, her voice hoarse. "But everyone deserves a chance to change and repent. With repentance, all sins can be forgiven, no matter how grave."
"Fifteen years is more than enough time to repent. Do you know what happens to those who don't?"
He cupped her face, leaning in so close that his lips brushed her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
"They get punished."
A tremor ran through her as his words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding. The moonlight flickered as a gust of wind rattled the open door. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed midnight, each echoing note adding to the tension. Her mind raced, memories of the fleeting moments with him flashing vividly—his laughter, his kindness, the warmth of his touch.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't need you to do this."
He pulled back slightly, just enough for her to see the shadow of his face a familiar solemnity painted on it. "You're right most times" he said, his voice laced with coldness.
"But not this time."
CHAPTER 1
A small carriage, pulled by a frail and exhausted white horse, wobbled along a narrow, winding path cutting through an expanse of lush green fields. In the rear seat, a petite young woman with dark brown hair gazed out the small window, watching the road behind her gradually fade into the distance.
She sighed softly.
"It'll be a long time before I can come back. I already miss them," she murmured.
Turning her attention forward, her dark amber eyes glistened with resolve. "But leaving is necessary. Only with change can there be progress," she declared firmly, her voice steady.
Settling back into her corner, she closed her eyes for a brief nap. In contrast, the two men sharing the carriage were fast asleep, snoring loudly, with trails of drool escaping their mouths.
After what felt like hours, Annabelle was roused by a gentle shake on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see the scruffy driver peering at her.
"Miss, Ten Mills Town is just ahead."
Annabelle blinked, momentarily confused.
"This is your stop, isn't it? You were heading to Ten Mills Town?"
Her mind cleared, and she quickly nodded. "Oh, yes! Sorry!"
Grabbing her large bag which was just a little smaller than her from the seat, she hopped off the carriage, waving at it as it continued down the winding road. Once it was out of sight, she stopped waving and began walking toward a large set of gates visible in the distance, following a narrower path that branched off.
When she reached the gates, a weary-looking guard gave her a brief glance before waving her through after acknowledging that she definitely did not look anything like any of the line of charcoal portraits pinned to the wall beside him.
Inside the gates, Annabelle found herself in a bustling crowd. People moved in every direction, their incessant chatter blending into a cacophony of noise. She looked around at the nearby buildings before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper covered in uneven scrawls.
"Margaret said it should be somewhere around here," she muttered, she looked around a bit before turning to head in the indicated direction.
Suddenly, someone collided with her, the force sending her sprawling to the ground.
"Ouch!" she cried, wincing as she looked up to identify the perpetrator.
A tall man dressed in a dark trench coat stood over her, his ink-black hair falling slightly across his face. For a brief moment, a strange expression flickered in his eyes upon seeing her.
"Sorry," he said hurriedly before helping her to her feet and disappearing into the crowd without another word.
Annabelle stared after him, a bit dazed.
'A handsome gentleman,' she thought absently before refocusing on her task.
A few minutes later, she stood before a dilapidated mansion.
"This must be the place," she said to herself, stepping up to knock twice on the heavy door.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then she heard the slow, deliberate shuffle of footsteps on the other side. The door creaked open to reveal a small, hunched old man. His weathered face regarded her suspiciously.
"What do you want?" he asked, his rasping voice just like sandpaper.
"Hi, you must be Mr. Jeffrey. Margaret spoke of you often. My name is Annabelle—Annabelle Wright," she replied warmly.
At her name, the old man's pupils narrowed sharply, and he stumbled backward, almost losing his balance.
"Wright? You're a Wright?" he asked, his expression a mix of shock and something close to horror.
"Yes, I am. Why?"
Without warning, Jeffrey grabbed her hand and yanked her inside, slamming the door shut behind them.
"Hey! What's going on?" Annabelle exclaimed, alarmed by his sudden behavior.
Once the door was firmly locked, Jeffrey released her hand and gave her a small, apologetic bow.
"Forgive me, miss. That was... necessary," he said quietly.
"Necessary? For what?" she asked, rubbing her bruised wrist warily.
Jeffrey hesitated before shaking his head. "Nothing you need to worry about. Just... some old memories." He paused, then added, "It might be wise not to use the name Wright in this town."
"Why not?" she pressed.
Ignoring her question, Jeffrey straightened. "Now that I know who you are, may I ask why you've come here?"
"Oh, right! I almost forgot. I came looking for a place to stay," she explained.
Jeffrey glanced at the crumbling interior of the mansion. "Here? Not in town?"
Annabelle lowered her gaze, her cheeks flushing. "I don't have the money to rent anywhere in town," she admitted in a small voice. "Margaret said I could stay here."
At the mention of Margaret, Jeffrey's expression softened. "Margaret sent you? How is she? It's been years."
Annabelle's face grew somber. "She passed away a few weeks ago. Before she died, knowing I wanted to leave, she told me about this place."
Jeffrey stood still for a moment, his head bowed. "A pity. Death comes for us all, sooner or later." He sighed. "Still, it's not the end. There's peace to be found in the embrace of death."
"Excuse me," Annabelle interrupted the old man who was on the verge of reminiscing, "but about the lodging? It's been a long journey, and I really need a place to rest."
"Ah, yes. Follow me," he said, leading her deeper into the dilapidated mansion. Broken bricks and debris littered the floors, and nearly every corner showed signs of neglect and decay.
"As you can see," Jeffrey said, "This place is mostly uninhabitable. I live in a small shack at the back. There are two other rooms in the same courtyard. A former servants' quarters. Of which one of the rooms is currently occupied by a male tenant. In other words, you have a roommate or rather a flatmate."
Annabelle froze mid-step. "What?"