The rain lashed against the windows of the bus as it wound through narrow, twisting roads. Lila Calder pressed her forehead against the cold glass, her chest tightening with a mix of fear and anticipation. The countryside blurred past in muted tones of grey and green, the storm turning the world into a canvas of shadows. She clutched the worn letter in her lap—the one that had promised her a fresh start.

The driver glanced back at her. “This is your stop, Miss.” His voice held a faint unease, as though the destination itself warranted a warning.

Lila stepped off the bus, the chill of the storm biting through her thin coat. Before her loomed Blackthorn Manor, perched atop a jagged cliff. Its dark, gothic spires seemed to pierce the storm clouds, and the sea below crashed against the rocks in fury.

“Welcome to the abyss,” she whispered to herself, clutching her small suitcase.

As she approached the wrought-iron gates, they creaked open with a ghostly groan. A man waited on the other side, tall and severe, his grey hair slicked back as if not a single drop of rain dared touch him.

“You must be Miss Calder,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. “I am Arthur, the head butler. Follow me.”

Lila trailed behind him, her boots squelching against the wet gravel. The closer she got to the manor, the more oppressive its presence felt, as though the house itself were alive and watching her.

Inside, Blackthorn Manor was both beautiful and foreboding. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, their light casting fractured reflections on the polished floors. The air smelled faintly of aged wood and something faintly metallic.

“You are to follow the rules,” Arthur said brusquely as they climbed a sweeping staircase. “Mr. Blackthorn does not tolerate disobedience or intrusion into his private affairs. Do your job, stay out of sight, and you’ll have no trouble.”

Lila frowned but nodded. She’d been warned about the reclusive owner in the letter—a man of wealth and mystery. But nothing had prepared her for what she would feel when she met him.

Arthur stopped at a grand double door and knocked once. “Your employer awaits.”

The study was dimly lit, the only light coming from a roaring fireplace that cast flickering shadows across the room. Lila stepped inside hesitantly, her gaze drawn to the man standing by the window.

Adrian Blackthorn.

He was tall, his presence commanding. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his sharp jawline and piercing grey eyes giving him a cruel beauty. He turned slowly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her shiver.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice was low, smooth, but laced with an undercurrent of something dangerous.

“The bus was delayed,” Lila said, her own voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze swept over her, assessing, lingering for just a moment too long. “Excuses are not tolerated here.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, but she kept her head high. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Blackthorn.”

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “See that it doesn’t. Arthur will show you to your quarters. Be ready to work at dawn.”

As Lila turned to leave, she felt his gaze burning into her back, a heavy weight she couldn’t shake.

That night, in her small room tucked away in the servants' wing, Lila lay awake listening to the storm rage outside. She couldn’t shake the image of Adrian Blackthorn—those cold, calculating eyes and the way they seemed to strip her bare.

This was supposed to be her escape, her chance to start over. But as the walls of Blackthorn Manor seemed to close in around her, she couldn’t help but wonder: had she walked into something far darker than she could have imagined?

The morning sun was an uninvited guest at Blackthorn Manor, barely piercing through the heavy storm clouds. Lila woke to the sharp rap of knuckles on her door. Arthur’s voice was as crisp as the cold air that crept through her window.

“Miss Calder, it is six o’clock. You’re expected in the kitchens.”

Groggy and unsettled from restless dreams, Lila hurried to dress. The plain uniform she’d been given felt stifling, the collar tight around her neck. She smoothed her hair and descended the narrow servant's staircase into the heart of the manor.

The kitchen was vast, with gleaming counters and a towering hearth that radiated warmth. Two other servants worked in silence, barely sparing Lila a glance as she entered. A stern-faced woman, her hair pulled into a severe bun, approached her.

“I’m Mrs. Lark, the housekeeper,” she said, handing Lila a clipboard. “Here are your tasks. Stick to the east wing for now, and under no circumstances are you to disturb Mr. Blackthorn unless summoned. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lila felt the weight of their stares as she left the kitchen, her footsteps echoing in the empty halls.

The east wing was an exercise in restrained opulence. Each room was adorned with antique furniture, heavy drapes, and ornate chandeliers. Yet beneath the grandeur was a suffocating stillness, as though the house itself held its breath.

While dusting a mantelpiece, Lila noticed a portrait hanging above the fireplace. It depicted a woman with striking features: raven-black hair, pale skin, and eyes that seemed to pierce through the canvas. Her beauty was undeniable, but her expression was cold, almost haunting.

“That’s Eleanor Blackthorn,” came a voice behind her.

Lila spun around to see Arthur standing in the doorway, his face as unreadable as ever.

“Mr. Blackthorn’s late wife,” he added, stepping closer. “A word of advice, Miss Calder. Do not pry into things that don’t concern you. The last girl who did... didn’t last long.”

Before Lila could respond, he turned and disappeared down the hall, his warning hanging in the air like a noose.

As the day wore on, Lila couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. While polishing the grand staircase, she glanced up to see Adrian Blackthorn standing at the top, his expression impassive.

“Miss Calder,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve been staring at that portrait,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the east wing. “Do you find my wife’s image so fascinating?”

Lila hesitated, unsure how to answer. “She’s… striking, sir.”

His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yes, she was.”

He descended the stairs slowly, his presence as imposing as the house itself. “Do your work, Miss Calder. And remember, curiosity can be a dangerous thing.”

That evening, as Lila prepared to retire to her quarters, a soft sound caught her attention—a faint melody drifting through the halls. It was a piano, the notes haunting and sorrowful.

Drawn to the sound, Lila followed it to a room she hadn’t yet entered. The door was slightly ajar, and inside, she saw Adrian seated at a grand piano, his fingers moving effortlessly over the keys.

For a moment, he seemed almost human, his face softened by the melancholy of the music. But when he noticed her, the spell was broken. His hands stilled, and his gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unforgiving.

“Who gave you permission to intrude?” he demanded, rising to his full height.

“I… I’m sorry,” Lila stammered, stepping back. “I heard the music and—”

“Leave,” he said coldly, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Humiliated and shaken, Lila fled back to her room, her heart pounding. She couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward Adrian, but beneath it was a growing sense of fear.

Something was very wrong with this house—and its master.

The next morning dawned heavy and grey, a mist rolling in from the sea and clinging to the windows like cobwebs. Lila stood in the grand hall with her dusting cloth in hand, but her thoughts were elsewhere—still tangled in the haunting melody Adrian had played the night before.

Why had his music felt so raw, so broken? And why had he reacted with such anger when she’d found him?

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Turning, she saw Mrs. Lark approaching with a grim expression.

“Miss Calder, I need you to tend to the west wing today,” she said, handing over a fresh list of tasks.

Lila hesitated. “I thought the west wing was off-limits?”

“It usually is,” Mrs. Lark replied, her tone curt. “But Mr. Blackthorn has given specific instructions. And remember: do not touch anything that isn’t on your list.”

With a nod, Lila made her way to the west wing. As she crossed the threshold, the atmosphere seemed to shift. The air was colder here, and the corridors darker, with windows draped in heavy velvet curtains.

One of her tasks was to clean a sitting room near the far end of the wing. The space was grand but neglected, the furniture covered in white sheets like ghosts waiting to be unveiled. A large mirror hung on the wall, its gilded frame tarnished with age.

As Lila worked, she caught her reflection in the mirror—and froze.

Behind her, just for an instant, she thought she saw a figure. A woman in a flowing black gown with raven hair and piercing eyes. The image was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it left her heart racing.

Shaking off the unease, she returned to her tasks, though she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Later that evening, Lila found herself in the library, unable to sleep. The room was vast and labyrinthine, with towering shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. She ran her fingers along the spines of old, leather-bound books, marveling at their age.

One book in particular caught her attention. Its cover was plain and unmarked, but when she opened it, the pages were filled with scrawled notes and sketches.

The handwriting was unmistakable—Adrian’s.

The notes detailed a series of dates and events, all cryptic and fragmented. But what struck Lila most was a single phrase repeated throughout the pages: The curse must be broken.

Before she could read further, the door creaked open, and Adrian’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Do you make a habit of prying into things that don’t belong to you, Miss Calder?”

She snapped the book shut and turned to face him, her heart pounding. “I wasn’t prying. I just… found it.”

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made her want to look away.

“That book,” he said, stepping closer, “is not for your eyes.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. “Curiosity will get you into trouble in this house.”

He reached out and took the book from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment. The contact sent a jolt through her, but his face remained cold, detached.

“Go back to your room,” he said.

Lila hesitated, wanting to ask him about the notes, about the curse, but the look in his eyes stopped her. She nodded and left the library, her mind racing.

As she lay in bed that night, the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together. Who was Adrian Blackthorn, really? And what was he hiding behind his stoic exterior?

But more troubling was the question she couldn’t ignore: why was she so drawn to him, despite the warning bells screaming in her mind?

For the first time since arriving at Blackthorn Manor, Lila wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers.