I had dismissed it as gossip. Small town rumors about the mysterious rich guy with the Gothic mansion. But here are seven portraits of beautiful women, all with that same kind of smile, all holding his signature blue roses.
Blue never said much when Duffy mentioned the wife rumors. When I’d laughed about it and called the whole thing ridiculous, he’d just said, “Small towns love their stories,” with that unreadable expression of his.
My mouth goes dry as I count them again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Exactly seven, just like the rumors said. Seven women who all look content in a way that’s hard to define.
But what happened to them? And why do the rumors insist they were wives?
And Blue’s one rule about the house: The third floor is off-limits. Private. His.
What could he be keeping up there that requires such secrecy?
The thought makes me restless, making my palms go clammy. Blue specifically asked me to avoid the third floor. Said it was private, like he was protecting his personal space. But what if he wasn’t protecting his privacy? What if he was protecting his secrets?
I shouldn’t go upstairs. I know I shouldn’t. Blue asked me to respect his one boundary, and given everything he’s done for me, I owe him that much trust.
But doubt is a poison that spreads through every rational thought. I can’t stop staring at Margaret’s face, at the way she looks so young and hopeful. Can’t stop wondering what happened to her, to all of them.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Blue looked at me in the greenhouse, possessiveness when he said I was his to claim.
What happens when he gets tired of claiming me? When the novelty wears off and I become just another beautiful thing he wants to keep forever?
My feet are moving before my brain catches up, carrying me up the remaining stairs, past the second-floor landing, toward territory I’ve never explored. The hallway that leads to the third floor is different from the rest of the house—narrower, with lower ceilings that make everything feel more intimate and claustrophobic.
At the top of the stairs, I find a door I haven’t seen before. Heavy wood painted deep midnight blue, with an ornate iron handle that’s cold beneath my palm. When I turn it, the door opens with the smooth silence of expensive hinges and regular maintenance.
The sight beyond stops me completely.
The hallway stretches ahead like a city block, lined with doors on both sides like the world’s most elegant hotel corridor. But it’s what hangs from the ceiling that makes my breath catch. Hundreds of skeleton keys suspended on nearly invisible wire, creating a curtain of brass and iron that sways gently in air currents I can’t feel. They range from tiny delicate things no bigger than my thumb to massive medieval-looking contraptions that could unlock castle gates.
Each key catches the light from wall sconces positioned between the doors, creating patterns of shadow and gleam that shift and dance with every slight movement. The whole thing gives me the creeps, but I can’t stop staring.
And the doors. Jesus, the doors.
Each one is different. Some painted in rich jewel tones, others natural wood polished to mirror brightness, a few that look like they’re covered in fabric or leather. But they all have one thing in common: intricate keyholes that seem to beckon like dark, judging eyes.
I move deeper into the hallway, my footsteps muffled by a runner carpet so thick my heels sink into it with each step. The keys hang just low enough that I have to duck slightly to avoid them, their metal surfaces catching the light as I pass beneath. Some of them look newer than others, like they’ve been polished recently.
The first door I try is painted deep burgundy with a keyhole shaped like a heart. The handle turns under my hand, but the door doesn’t budge. Locked, just like I somehow knew it would be.
The second door, this one covered in blue velvet, is also locked. As is the third, painted silver with a keyhole surrounded by carved roses.
Every door I try stays stubbornly closed, their keyholes dark and secretive. But one of those keys hanging overhead has to fit each lock. That’s the only reason for such a display. Blue hasn’t just locked these rooms; he’s turned the whole process into some kind of elaborate puzzle.
The hallway seems to stretch forever, with more doors than any reasonable person could need. What could possibly require this much secured storage space? Art collection? Wine cellar? Historic artifacts?
Or seven wives who asked too many questions?
Christ, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like one of those true crime podcasts.
I’m halfway down the hallway when curiosity finally wins over common sense. I kneel beside a door painted the color of dried blood, pressing my eye to the keyhole like some Victorian gossip trying to spy on the neighbors.
It’s too dark to see anything clearly, but there’s definitely a room beyond the door. And something pale that might be fabric. Or skin. Or—
“I told you not to go to the third floor.”
I jump so hard I nearly fall backward onto the carpet. I scramble to my feet, adrenaline spiking through my system as I turn to face him.
Blue’s standing at the other end of the hallway, still wearing the clothes he left in, but now they are rumpled and stained with something dark across his shirt front. His hair is disheveled, likehe’s been in a fight, a storm, or both, and there’s something in the way he looks at me that makes every instinct scream at me to run.
