The Prologue: The Weight of a Name
The rain in Blackwood Manor didn't fall; it hunted. It lashed against the stained-glass windows of the grand library, trying to scrub away the sins hidden within these limestone walls.
I stood in the center of the room, my white silk dress—once a symbol of a million-dollar lie—now heavy with a liquid that wasn't rain. It was thick, metallic, and warm. It was the price of my soul.
Across from me, the man I called "husband" sat in his leather armchair, swirling a glass of amber scotch. Alaric Blackwood didn't look like a grieving man. He looked like an artist who had finally finished his masterpiece.
"You look beautiful, Seraphina," he whispered, the name cutting through the silence like a jagged blade.
"That's not my name," I rasped, my voice sounding like broken glass.
Alaric stood up, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. He tilted my chin up with a gloved hand, forcing me to look into the abyss of his eyes. "Names are for the living, my love. And the girl you used to be... Lyra... she died the moment you put on that veil. You belong to the shadows now. You belong to me."
I looked at my hands, trembling and stained. I had come here to escape poverty, to play a part, to win a game. But as the sirens wailed in the distance, I realized the truth. In this house, there are no players. There are only monsters, and the mirrors that reflect them.
My name is Lyra. Or at least, it used to be. But tonight , as the blood dries on the lace of my sleeve, I realize that the girl from the slums is gone.
The masquerade is over. The nightmare has just begun.
