Long-press a paragraph to send danmaku
The papers are still in my hand when he speaks.
"Looking for something?"
I don't jump. Don't scream. My body just goes cold, the kind of cold that starts in your chest and spreads out until even your fingertips feel like ice. I turn around slow, and Lucas is standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, watching me like I'm something he found crawling across his desk.
He's changed out of the wedding clothes. Black shirt now, sleeves rolled up. No tie. Hair still damp like he just got out of the shower. He looks almost normal, if normal included the fact that his eyes are locked on the deeds I'm holding and there's no expression on his face at all.
"I—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I was just—"
"Just what?" He steps into the room. Doesn't slam the door. Doesn't rush me. Just walks in like he's got all the time in the world, and somehow that's worse. "Looking for the bathroom? Got lost on your way back from the kitchen?"
I should lie. Should drop the papers and make up something, anything. But I'm so tired of lying, of pretending I don't know what I know, and the words come out before I can stop them.
"You took everything."
He stops a few feet away. Looks at the deeds in my hand, then back at my face. "I did."
No denial. No excuse. Just two words, flat and cold.
"Three years ago," I say, and my hand is shaking now, the papers rustling. "The same month my mother and brother died. You took our land, our assets, everything we had left, and you—"
"I didn't kill them."
"Liar."
His jaw tightens. It's the first real reaction I've seen from him since he walked in, and I latch onto it, take a step forward even though every instinct is screaming at me to run.
"You signed the contracts," I say, my voice rising. "Your name is on every single one of these. The estates in Ashford, the warehouses on the docks, the summer house where Daniel—" I stop. Can't say it. Can't say *where Daniel was playing when they found his body*. "You took it all."
"I did," he says again, and this time there's something in his voice, something almost like anger. "But I didn't kill them, Vivian. I'm not the one who ordered the hit."
"Then who did?"
Silence.
I throw the papers at him. They scatter in the air, flutter down around his feet like dead leaves, and he doesn't even flinch.
"Who did it?" I'm shouting now, and I don't care if the whole house hears me. "You know. You were there. You took everything they left behind, so you know who killed them. Tell me."
He looks at the papers on the floor. Then he crouches down, starts picking them up one by one, and I want to scream at him, want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he talks, but I just stand there, fists clenched, while he gathers up the evidence of what he did to my family.
When he stands, he's holding all of them in one hand, neat and tidy like they were never thrown in the first place. He looks at me for a long moment, and I see something flicker across his face. Not guilt. Not exactly. But something close.
"You want a name?" he says quietly.
"Yes."
"You want to march up to them and demand justice? Call the Council? Go to the human police?"
"I want the truth."
He laughs. It's a short, bitter sound, and it makes my skin crawl. "The truth is, whoever ordered it is still sitting in Council chambers right now. They're powerful, Vivian. More powerful than me, more powerful than your father ever was. And they don't leave loose ends."
My throat goes tight. "What are you saying?"
He takes a step closer. Then another. I back up until I hit the edge of the desk, and he stops right in front of me, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of soap and something darker underneath, something that reminds me of the blood contract we just signed.
"I'm saying you were supposed to die with them," he says, and his voice is so soft I almost don't hear it. "Your mother, your brother, and you. All three Ashcrofts, gone in one night. Clean sweep. No witnesses, no heirs, no one left to ask questions."
The room tilts. I grip the desk behind me, fingers digging into the wood.
"But you lived," he continues, still watching me with those cold, unreadable eyes. "You were at boarding school. Out of reach. And your father—" He stops. Shakes his head. "Your father made a deal."
"What deal?"
"You don't want to know."
"Tell me."
"No."
I push off the desk, get right in his face even though my legs are shaking. "You don't get to decide what I want to know. You don't get to stand there and act like you're protecting me when you're the one who—"
"I didn't touch them." His voice is hard now, all the softness gone. "I took the land because I was told to take the land. I signed the contracts because I was ordered to sign them. But I didn't kill your mother, and I didn't kill your brother, and if you think I did, then you're dumber than I thought."
We're standing so close I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched around the papers like he's trying not to do something he'll regret.
"Then why?" I whisper. "Why did you marry me? Why go through with this if you know—"
"Because you're safer here than you are anywhere else."
I laugh. Can't help it. The sound comes out high and broken, and I see something shift in his expression, something that might be regret or might just be annoyance.
"Safer," I repeat. "I'm married to the man who stole my family's legacy, who knows who killed them and won't tell me, and you think I'm *safe*?"
"Yes."
One word. He says it like it's fact, like there's no room for argument, and I want to hit him. Want to scream at him until he admits what he did, until he stops pretending this is anything other than what it is.
But then he does something I don't expect.
He holds out one of the papers. The contract. The one with his signature at the bottom.
"Take it," he says.
I stare at him. "What?"
"You want proof? Take it. Keep it. Hide it under your pillow for all I care." He shoves it toward me, and I take it automatically, the paper crinkling in my hand. "But if you're smart, you'll burn it. Forget you ever saw it. And you'll stop asking questions before someone notices."
"I'm not going to—"
"Tomorrow night," he cuts me off, "we're attending a Council meeting. First public appearance as husband and wife. Every elder in the city is going to be watching, and they're going to be looking for weakness. Cracks. Anything they can use."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box. Opens it. Inside is a ring, black metal with a dark red stone set in the center. It looks old. Expensive. Wrong.
"You wear this," he says, taking my left hand before I can pull away. His fingers are cold, firm. He slides the ring onto my fourth finger, and it fits perfectly, like it was made for me. "You smile. You stand next to me. You play the part of the devoted bride. And you keep your mouth shut."
I look down at the ring. It's heavy. Feels like a shackle.
"And if I don't?"
He lets go of my hand. Steps back. And when he looks at me, there's something in his eyes I haven't seen before. Not anger. Not coldness.
Fear.
"Then we're both dead by the end of the week," he says quietly.
He turns and walks out, leaving me standing there with the contract in one hand and his ring on the other, and the only sound in the room is my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud, drowning out everything else.
I look down at the ring again. The stone catches the light, gleams dark red like old blood.
Tomorrow night, I'll walk into the Council chambers as Mrs. Croft. I'll smile. I'll play the part.
And I'll find out which one of them killed my family.
Even if it means standing next to their accomplice to do it.