Chapter 1
Adrian Grayson, a man in his 50s, sat in his extravagant bedroom, gazing out the large window. His face was unreadable—calm, distant, like a mask carved from stone. Though his mind seemed heavy with thoughts, emotions were impossible to read from his expression. It was as if he had spent years mastering the art of feeling nothing—or at least appearing so.
Suddenly, there was a knock on his bedroom door.
He didn’t respond. Just like always, he ignored the person standing outside. Ignored her presence entirely.
The door opened quietly, and soft footsteps approached him. Then came a woman’s voice—melodic, yet heavy with complexity. She too was in her 50s.
“Did you sign it?” she asked, her voice trembling with layered emotion. It wasn’t just a question. It was a plea, and at the same time, a resignation. She needed an answer—but part of her feared what it might be.
Adrian Grayson was not your typical man. He had never been known to choose the so-called “right” thing in life. Reckless in his youth, wild with his decisions, he made choices not by logic, but by impulse. And perhaps he’d admit it, too. Haste had always defined him.
But age changes people.
Now, he was slower, more uncertain.
"Are you sure you want it to end like this?" he asked at last, voice low, hesitant.
He wasn’t sure. He had wanted it in the past, so desperately. But now? Everything had changed. Somewhere along the way, she had carved a space in his life—without either of them truly noticing. No, it wasn’t a grand place like someone else's, but it was a place nonetheless.
“I’ve never been this sure in my whole life,” she said after a long silence.
Silence—that’s what she’d always received from him. It didn’t bother her much like it used to. Perhaps because she was younger then, thinking that love was about possessing someone, about earning a place and holding on to it. But now she knew: possession didn’t equal belonging.
"Fine. If that’s what you want,” Adrian said flatly.
Adrian didn’t ask her why.
Why now.
Why after all these years
He should have asked.
Because once, she would have set herself on fire before letting go of him.
But he didn’t ask.
And she didn’t offer.
She simply signed.
What I want, she thought bitterly. When did it ever matter to you what I wanted?
She never imagined she’d lose something she never truly had. And yet, here she was. From where she started, to where she stood now, the thing she once desired could never be hers.
I thought the dead didn’t scare anyone dead person can't take something from u ig that was just foolish thought… but look at Me, she thought, watching him.
You still let the dead control your life.
She still had him.
She always did.
She was right.
There was a bitter smile on her lips—not jealousy, no. Just pain. The kind of pain that sits too long in the chest.
Suddenly, a younger voice broke the air. Bright, energetic.
“Mom! I was looking all over the house for you—you two are in here!”
A young man, cheerful and full of life, came in and hugged her. It was Ren. He was her son atleast she accepted it like that—but Adrian’s, too.
Before she could reply, Adrian jumped in with a sudden burst of false cheerfulness.
“Oh, so now the ghost of Mainland City visits us!” he said, half-joking, masking the lingering sadness in his voice that only a few ever noticed.
“Well, what’s wrong with surprising you? You should be happy—you’ve got such a great son,” Adrian added, pretending to be offended. “Besides, mom loves surprises. Right, Mum?”
“Thats right but not such surprises Ren…” she scolded gently. “You shouldn’t have come alone. You should’ve stayed with your friends.”
She wasn’t angry—just scared. That kind of overprotectiveness that comes from a place of deep-seated trauma.
Ren understood. He hated being smothered, but he knew they meant well.
Adrian nodded. “She’s right, Ren. I might have to stop your outings altogether if you—”
“Okay, okay! Chill. I didn’t come alone. Lucas was with me. Relax!” Ren interrupted quickly.
Adrian still looked uneasy, but he knew there was no controlling him. Ren was headstrong—very much like his mother.
Ever since Ren’s accident in childhood, Adrian had been overly cautious. The memory of that day still haunted him. There was a time he didn’t even want to live anymore… but he had Ren. He couldn’t leave—not when someone like Ren depended on him.
His thoughts were interrupted again.
“God, I’m hungry! Can we save these discussions for later? I just want food, Mom!” Ren said with mock frustration. Then, pausing, he asked carefully, “What’s for dinner?”
a sharp voice cut in.
“No meat.”
It was Isabella.
The tone made it clear: this was not up for discussion.
“Yeah, whatever…” Ren muttered sarcastically, but not in a cruel way. He was just tired. Tired of the protectiveness. His friends had freedom—lived alone, ate what they wanted, went wherever they pleased. But not him.
He understood their concern. But he was still young. Still wanted to live freely.
His parents understood. So they didn’t push further.
“Go get changed. Dinner will be ready soon,” Isabella said, walking away.
Ren chatted a bit with Adrian about his trip to Mainland City, then went to his room.
After dinner, everyone disappeared into their respective spaces. Isabella and Adrian hadn’t shared a room in years. Ren had noticed that since childhood. He’d asked about it once, maybe twice, but never really got an answer. Eventually, he stopped asking. He realized his family was different—but peaceful. And that was enough. Not perfect. But enough. He has seen the worst of family in their circle so he was content with enough or atleast pretended to be.....
In Adrian’s Study
After dinner, Adrian followed his nightly routine.
His study was a haven for any lover of books. Shelves reached the ceiling, stacked with literature, philosophy, old journals, dusty first editions. The scent of aged paper mixed with wood polish. A globe rested in the corner, books were stacked in uneven piles on the desk, and his worn leather chair sat like a throne in the center of it all.
There were pens. So many pens. Dozens of notebooks. Drafts, incomplete thoughts, scribbles. A typewriter gifted by someone
He was a writer. A great one, they said. The kind who built entire worlds out of sentences.
But tonight, the words left him.
He picked up his pen to scribble—a habit she had once taught him.
But nothing came.
Not even a word.
For the first time in years, he Adrian Grayson couldn’t write.
He sat in it for a while — the failure, the ache, the weight. Then stood, moved quietly out of the study, and into the dim hallway. The lights flickered once, like they weren’t sure if they should stay on.
He entered his bedroom. It felt colder than usual.
Sleep had long been a stranger to him — not insomnia, not restlessness, but something deeper. A refusal of peace.
Because the moment he closed his eyes, she came.
Not in dreams.
Not in memory.
But in punishment.
Not her as she was now, but her as she had been — all soft laughter and fierce eyes. A girl with ink on her fingers and fire in her lungs. A girl he could have saved. A girl he did not.
Ren’s face flashed next. Then Isabella’s voice, distant but final.
And then… hers.
Not a memory. Not anymore. A possibility.
Could it be?
No.
That thought — that beautiful, venomous thought — was too dangerous.
But danger never stopped him before.
If she knew… truly knew…
Then why wouldn’t she—?
He couldn’t finish the question.
He couldn’t even name it.
So he lay in bed, sheets stiff beneath him, while the ceiling watched.
His eyes stayed open long after the sky turned pale.
And still, Adrian Grayson did not sleep.
But tonight, it wasn’t just Adrian who couldn’t sleep.
The house — that old, breathing thing — felt restless. Like it remembered something too.
Issabele in her room which almost feels lifeless she sat alone in the old armchair
'he didn’t ask why'.
She kept repeating this on her mind
Outside, the wind moved through the trees like it was searching for something.
Inside, Isabella remembered.
Not just the marriage.
Not the boy he was or the man he became.
She remembered before.
Before all of it.
Before the Conservatory.
Before her.
She had loved Adrian.
She had.
But love isn't always innocent.
Sometimes you love someone so much
you become a liar for them.
You rewrite truth into something prettier.
More livable.
And the thing about lies is — they don’t die when love does.
They rot.
They linger.
They turn quiet things into monsters.
And she had lied.
To have him. So she can own him.
To protect the love she thought she had...to protect what little good was left to her
But the past always finds its way home.
Even when you pretend it never happened.
Even when you say, "I did it out of love."
Even when you say it was innocent.
She closed her eyes.
The image came back — too fast, too sharp. The choice she made Called it love.
Wrapped it in loyalty and let it rot in silence
For the first time in her life she was questioning the things which she did in the name of love she knew she was no noble person but today she somehow felt it for the first time....she almost wished she had been.
Just once.
On the other side of the mansion
Ren lay wide awake in his room across the hall, the ceiling pale with moonlight. One arm rested over his eyes, the other clenched the sheets as if grounding him would help.
He wasn’t thinking about classes. Or not even about his parents odd behaviour he is definitely an observant one he too noticed things but he chose to keep quiet in fear of losing what he still can have he neither thought about Ewan and his reckless behaviour also which is talk of the town, for once.
He was thinking about that dream.
The one that returned again.
Blurry. Distant. But somehow more real than ever.
His eyes stayed on the ceiling, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere —
to the mainland,
to a moment he couldn't explain,
to a feeling that came and went like fog: familiar, wrong, unfinished.
And though he didn’t know it yet,
tonight would be the last night he mistook that feeling for nothing.
The moon drifted over the old estate.
Somewhere in the dark, something stirred.
And neither of them — not Adrian,
not Ren — not isabella
would find sleep.
Not tonight.
Elsewhere — Far From Averleigh Estate
While the estate slept under silver moonlight,
another building refused silence.
It stood alone on a stretch of unmarked road —
industrial, windowless, forgotten.
Inside, a man in his late 40s was tied to a steel chair.
Not slumped. Not unconscious.
Awake.
Barely.
His salt-and-pepper hair clung to his forehead, soaked with sweat.
His breathing came in shudders.
His lip was split. His shirt torn. One shoe missing.
And around his ribs, bruises bloomed like ink under pale skin.
He wasn’t being beaten.
He was being taken apart, one answer at a time.
A tray beside him held a scalpel, surgical tape, and a coil of copper wire — not for electricity, but for pressure.
The kind of pressure that cuts without leaving blood.
The kind that crushes joints before it ever breaks skin.
Two figures stood across from him.
One leaned casually against the doorframe.
The other sat across from him, legs crossed, gloved hands resting in their lap.
Neither looked angry.
That was the terrifying part.
The seated one tilted their head slightly.
Their voice, when it came, was calm.
Patient.
Cold.
“I need answers.”
“The more you refuse…”
“...the more pain you’ll feel.”
The man whimpered. His voice cracked.
“I—I don’t know anything, I swear to you—”
“Then lie better.”
“Because your body’s already stopped believing you.”
The man’s head dropped forward.
Tears fell, mixing with blood on the concrete.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just—just stop. Please. I’m not who you think I am.”
A silence followed. Long. Measured.
Then:
“You are exactly who I think you are.”
“And that’s why we’re here.”
A gloved hand picked up the scalpel.
The man jerked, rattling the chair against the bolts in the floor.
“No—please—please—I have a daughter—”
The figure that leaned against the doorframe turned ,Lifted their eyes. And paused for a second
That gaze was beautiful, terrifying.
Fire, locked behind stillness. There was pure madness in those eyes
“So did she.”
The voice didn’t crack.
It didn’t ask for understanding.
It was the kind of calm you hear right before something explodes —
not out of rage, but because it’s already decided.
The man froze.
That was when he stopped struggling.
Because something in the air had changed —
and he knew mercy was no longer part of the conversation.
That was the last thing he said before the screaming started again.
And this time — it didn’t stop.
Because the worst thing here
was not the pain.
It was what followed if you lied.
And for the next hour, the only sound was the truth being carved
—slowly—
from a body that had run out of lies
