Chapter 3 - Shadows Within the Cliffside Estate
The east wing of Hawthorne Manor felt less like a home and more like a museum dedicated to forgotten sorrows. High vaulted ceilings swallowed the feeble light of antique wall sconces, and the air carried the permanent, heavy scent of old cedar, sea salt, and wax.
When the housekeeper opened the heavy oak door to Evelyn’s assigned chambers, she stepped back into the shadows without a word. “Dinner will be brought to your room at seven. Do not wander the third-floor corridors after dark. Mr. Hawthorne’s private study is strictly off-limits.”
The door clicked shut, the heavy deadbolt sliding home with a definitive, chilling thud.
Evelyn was locked inside.
She dropped her bridal bouquet onto the floor—a collection of white dead-nettles and dried winter roses that looked as lifeless as the marriage itself—and walked over to the tall arched window. Below, the dark, churning waves of the Atlantic crashed violently against the jagged black rocks of the Newport cliffs. The spray hit the glass like handfuls of gravel.
She was trapped. Eighteen years old, with a high school diploma, a deferred college acceptance letter, and a legally binding marriage certificate tying her to a dying billionaire she had known for less than twenty minutes.
Her mind raced through options, but logic ruthlessly crushed every single one. Where could she go? Without money, without a car, and with Hawthorne Holdings owning every single debt her father had ever accumulated, any attempt to escape would simply bring the full, crushing weight of corporate lawyers and armed enforcers down upon her head. She was a caged bird, and the cage was made of reinforced steel and centuries of accumulated wealth.
She spent the next hour exploring the room. It was lavishly decorated in shades of midnight blue and silver, featuring a massive mahogany four-poster bed, a private ensuite bathroom lined with marble, and a bookshelf filled with heavy, leather-bound volumes on maritime law, corporate acquisitions, and 19th-century philosophy. There was no television, no phone with an outside line, and no computer. The outside world had been systematically locked out.
At precisely seven o'clock, a discreet knock sounded at a side service door hidden behind a velvet tapestry.
Evelyn pulled the door open to find a young maid—no older than herself, with terrified eyes and hair pulled back into a severe bun—balancing a silver tray laden with roast chicken, steamed asparagus, and a crystal goblet of sparkling water.
“I’m Anna,” the girl whispered frantically, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor as she hurried to place the tray on a small writing desk. “I bring your meals. Please... whatever you do, don't ask questions about the master, and never go near the west tower.”
“Wait,” Evelyn said, stepping forward to block the doorway before Anna could escape. “Tell me the truth. Is he really ninety? Is he actually dying?”
Anna flinched violently, as though expecting a blow. Her face went pale. “Everyone in the house says he’s ancient. They say the mask is because... because the fire took his face years ago. But nobody looks at him. Nobody speaks unless spoken to. If you value your life, Miss Parker, play your part, eat your meals, and stay in your quarters.”
Before Evelyn could press further, Anna slipped out into the hallway and pulled the heavy door shut, locking it from the outside once more.
Evelyn stared at the untouched food on the tray. Her appetite was completely gone. She walked over to the mirror, looking at her reflection in the dim light. The pale gray dress made her look fragile, almost transparent against the dark background of the room.
May you like
Not anymore, she whispered to her reflection, her jaw tightening as a fierce, unyielding resolve took root beneath her skin. I might be your prisoner today, Nathaniel Hawthorne, but I refuse to be your victim.
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