The rats always sounded larger in the dark.

Sabine Virell lay stiff on the wood-slat platform above the brothel’s rafters, the frayed hem of her stolen blanket tangled around one ankle. She stared at the black ceiling just inches above her nose, counting heartbeats. The floor below creaked with familiar weight—Madam Helda’s lumbering shuffle as she herded drunks toward the door. The third bell of night had long passed. Most patrons were gone. That was usually when Sabine slept hardest.

Tonight, she couldn’t.

Something was wrong.

Then she heard it.

Not Helda. Not the regulars. Not the girls.

Boots.

Too many boots.

She rose in a crouch, heart thudding, and slipped silently to the far corner of the attic where the light couldn’t touch her. Her breathing slowed. She had learned this as a child—how to vanish in plain sight. But they were already coming up the stairs.

Three. No, four of them. Heavy-footed, not local. She smelled saltwater, wet coats, and something sharper—leather oil.

The brothel went quiet below. No laughter, no heels.

Someone whispered: “Top floor.”

Sabine pressed her back against the dusty wall and reached for the dull knife she kept tied to her thigh with a strip of garter elastic. Not much of a blade, but it had drawn blood before. It could again.

A floorboard creaked just beside her. A figure passed the thin edge of moonlight spilling through a crack in the roof—tall, cloaked, and gloved.

He turned toward her hiding place.

She didn’t breathe.

His voice was soft and satisfied: “Found her.”

A hand lunged into the dark, but Sabine struck first. Her blade scraped cloth. She shoved off the wall and darted low, aiming to roll past him down the stairwell—but a second figure was waiting. A sack dropped over her head before she could scream.

She kicked. Bit. Felt the pop of a jaw as someone cursed and staggered. But another man slammed into her ribs, and the world exploded into pain.

"Celeste," one of them hissed, "don’t make this worse."

Celeste.

Sabine’s body froze for a beat too long, and that was all it took. Her wrists were bound behind her with coarse rope. Her knife clattered to the floor, useless.

She was hoisted, roughly, and carried down into the night.

The carriage smelled of mildew and old wood.

Sabine lay on the floor of it, wrists burning, head swimming, mouth gagged. They hadn’t removed the sack, but she could feel the roll of the wheels through the boards beneath her cheek. No windows. No sound but hooves, rain, and her own panicked breath.

They thought she was her sister.

Celeste.

She hadn’t seen her in nearly six years—not since they’d split the night the fires broke out at Miss Olynn’s boarding house. Celeste had run east, with a nobleman's letter in her pocket. Sabine had stayed, had begged scraps in alleys and learned to pick clean locks in the rain.

What had her twin done this time?

And why did it smell like they were taking her to a funeral?

The carriage lurched to a halt sometime later, the reins snapping sharp in the wet silence.

The doors swung open.

Hands grabbed her again—softer now, but still in control. She was lifted out, boots scraping cobblestone, and dragged forward through an archway.

Her shoes sank into mud. The scent of wet ivy, old stone, and iron gates filled her lungs. A place with history. Wealth. Teeth.

Then voices.

Low. Whispered. A woman’s gasp. “Is she… like this already?”

“No questions,” snapped a man. “Get her ready.”

The sack came off. Sabine blinked under the sting of lanterns. A tall footman with pale eyes watched her like she might shatter the walls. Behind him, stone pillars loomed. Vines. Rain. A door taller than any she’d seen.

The estate.

They had brought her to a goddamn estate.

Sabine’s gag was removed. Her mouth opened—but no sound came. What could she say? I’m not who you think I am? Would they believe that, or would they kill her faster?

A maid, young and trembling, took her elbow. “We must change you, Your Grace.”

Sabine blinked. “Your what?”

But no one answered.

The dress was too tight across her ribs. Deep green velvet, laced in the back like a corset from some rich woman’s portrait. They’d scrubbed her skin raw in a copper tub and brushed her hair until her scalp burned. Now she stood in a drawing room that smelled of candle wax, oranges, and rain-soaked curtains.

Every instinct screamed to run.

She studied the door. Guarded. She counted steps to the window. Too high. A trickle of water tapped against the glass.

Then the latch turned.

She went still.

He entered like silence itself.

The Duke of Ravener.

Taller than she expected. Broad-shouldered in dark navy, one glove missing, his hand marked faintly with a burn scar. His eyes—grey as dusk—moved over her face like a scholar with a riddle he hadn’t solved yet.

He didn’t greet her.

He walked a slow half-circle around the room, gaze on the floor, the paintings, the piano.

Then: “Say something.”

Sabine’s voice almost failed her. “I... wasn’t told what to say.”

A pause. Heavy as stone.

“You were gone for six days,” he said at last, still not looking at her. “No letters. No message. No explanation. You returned in the middle of the night. Injured. Silent.”

He turned to face her fully now. “And you expect me to believe that nothing has changed?”

Sabine met his gaze. Her voice didn’t shake. “You’re my husband. Wouldn’t you know if something had?”

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—contempt, maybe. Or curiosity.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me, then,” he said quietly. “What was the name of the dog you cried over when it died?”

Sabine’s mind raced. What?

She blinked. “I… I didn’t have a dog.”

The silence stretched. He didn’t move.

Finally, the Duke exhaled through his nose. “No,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”

She flinched.

He leaned in slightly, his voice colder now. “You are not the woman I married. You don’t speak like her. You don’t look at me like her. You don’t even hold your hands like her.”

Sabine swallowed, heart pounding.

“So?” she whispered. “What happens now?”

The Duke stepped back. Walked to the door. Placed one hand on the knob.

“I’m keeping you,” he said without turning. “For now.”

Then he opened the door, stepped through, and locked it behind him.

The key turned with a final, hollow click.

Sabine didn’t move. Not at first. She stared at the heavy oak door for a full minute after he left, as if it might unlock itself again out of sheer discomfort. But silence settled around her like dust.

She was alone.

Only then did her knees give out. She sank onto the nearest velvet chair, the green of her dress folding around her legs like ivy swallowing stone.

He knew.

Not in the way she feared—there had been no guards, no shackles, no shouted orders to drag her off to prison or worse. But he knew. Not a doubt, not a suspicion—he’d spoken it like weather, like gravity.

You are not the woman I married.

And still, he left her here.

Sabine looked around the room, now hers by name alone. Lit only by a wall of candles, it was too elegant for comfort: carved shelves, velvet drapes, thin-legged furniture no one actually sat in. There were paintings of stormy moors and women with blank expressions. Nothing here had ever been touched by need.

She kicked off the pinching shoes and rubbed her wrists where the rope burns still throbbed under the perfume they’d scrubbed onto her skin.

This wasn’t survival. This was theater.

And she had no script.

She began with the wardrobe.

Every dress hung like a judgment. Silk, velvet, satin. In shades of cream and wine and navy. She didn’t know what half the undergarments were called. A corset with pearl hooks. Gloves too thin to be warm. A fan made of swan feathers. Sabine had stolen from women like this, not been one.

In the top drawer, she found gloves—pairs upon pairs, neatly folded. She slipped one on out of morbid curiosity. It didn’t fit. Celeste’s hands had always been slimmer.

She moved on.

There was a desk near the window, polished to a mirror shine, with an ink blotter still fresh. The chair creaked under her weight. She pulled open the drawers one by one—stationery, sealing wax, a bronze letter opener shaped like a dagger. Useful.

And then, in the back of the lowest drawer, a book.

A worn poetry collection. Nothing suspicious. But it had no dust on the top edge. Her instincts kicked in.

She thumbed through the pages quickly. At page 214, something shifted—an envelope, flat and pressed between the paper like a dried flower.

Her hands hesitated, then opened it.

The letter inside was short. Written in Celeste’s unmistakable hand.

My name is not a promise.

It’s an apology waiting to be forgiven.

If this reaches you, then I failed.

And you’ll have to finish it.

No name. No date.

Sabine reread the words, heart hammering.

She sat back in the chair and stared at the letter until the candlelight blurred the ink. This wasn’t a random kidnapping. This wasn’t a mistake. Celeste had planned something—and she had vanished on purpose.

But what had she failed at?

And what had she left for Sabine to finish?

There was a knock.

A polite one. Soft. Three taps.

Sabine bolted upright and shoved the letter back inside the book, jamming it into the drawer before smoothing her dress and composing her face.

The door opened without waiting for permission.

A maid entered. Young, fresh-faced, with a tray of tea and a look that suggested she’d already judged everything about Sabine before crossing the threshold.

“His Grace asked me to see you settled,” she said, setting the tray down with precision. “My name is Thalia. I’ll be attending you directly.”

Sabine nodded once. “Fine.”

“Is there anything you require?”

“Yes,” Sabine said, voice dry. “A carriage to take me very far away.”

Thalia didn’t laugh. “That’s not on the list, Your Grace.”

Sabine sighed and glanced at the tray. “Then just the tea.”

The maid poured it without a word, placed the cup in Sabine’s hand, and stepped back.

“You’re different,” Thalia said softly.

Sabine blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You used to be crueler.”

Sabine raised an eyebrow. “Did you prefer that?”

“No,” Thalia said. “But it would’ve been simpler.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. “You’ll be expected at breakfast. His Grace dines at eight. Sharp.”

“Lovely,” Sabine murmured.

When the door shut behind her, Sabine stared down at the cup in her hand and wondered how long she could keep this up.

Tomorrow, the performance would begin.

And she wasn’t even sure who she was playing.

The gown they chose was pale lavender with silver trim. Someone—likely Thalia—had laid it out while Sabine slept. It had pearl buttons running from throat to hip and sleeves tight enough to restrict movement. It wasn’t made for someone who needed to run.

Sabine stared at herself in the mirror for a long time before going downstairs. The reflection didn’t belong to her. The girl in the glass had calm eyes, composed lips, and no bruises. She didn’t exist. She had never bled on cobblestones or eaten apple cores in alleyways.

But she was who they wanted.

Sabine adjusted her collar and descended the stairs with a pace that mimicked confidence.

The breakfast room sat on the east wing of the estate—a long corridor of filtered morning light and chilled marble underfoot. A footman bowed as he opened the tall double doors, and she stepped into a room that smelled faintly of coffee and firewood.

The Duke was already seated at the far end of a long, polished table. No one else was present.

He looked up once, then resumed buttering a slice of dark bread.

Sabine paused a heartbeat too long before walking toward the opposite end of the table. The chairs were velvet, the utensils bone-handled, and the plates white porcelain with silver trim. She chose the one that seemed least formal.

No one told her to sit. She sat anyway.

A servant ghosted forward to pour her tea.

Sabine kept her hands still. Her movements deliberate. She stirred the tea once, clockwise, the way she imagined a Duchess might. Her fingers itched to fidget, to grab the nearest knife and test its weight. Instead, she folded them neatly in her lap and looked across the table.

The Duke ate in silence. No glances. No conversation.

Just the sound of his knife slicing through eggs and the soft clink of china.

Sabine cleared her throat.

“You keep a quiet table.”

He didn’t look up. “I find it efficient.”

She took a small sip of tea. “And conversation?”

“Distracting.”

Sabine set her cup down carefully. “I suppose I’ve changed that too.”

This time, his gaze lifted. Just for a moment. And there was something almost amused behind it.

“You’ve changed everything.”

He said it like a fact. Not an accusation. Which, somehow, made it worse.

She took a slice of toast to give her hands something to do. Her stomach was empty, but the food turned to powder in her mouth. She swallowed anyway.

Across from her, the Duke reached for a folded letter beside his plate and read while he ate.

Sabine watched him over the rim of her cup. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t fidget. Every movement was precise—like someone trained not just in etiquette but in dominance. He was the kind of man who didn’t raise his voice because he never needed to.

“Are there others?” she asked, suddenly.

He looked up again, brow faintly lifted. “Others?”

She gestured vaguely. “Guests. Courtiers. Someone else in this—palace.”

“This is not a palace. It is my home.”

“So no visitors?”

“Not today.” A pause. “Why?”

Sabine shrugged, casually. “It’s just strange to eat in silence when there are so many chairs.”

“Would you prefer to dine among liars?”

The air between them cooled.

Sabine tilted her head. “Aren’t I already?”

A flicker of something crossed his face. But then he returned to his letter.

The silence thickened, this time sharp-edged.

Sabine turned her attention to the windows behind him. They overlooked the eastern gardens—rows of hedges carved into perfect geometry. At the far edge, a line of trees held back the mist. Somewhere beyond them, horses whinnied. Servants moved like shadows along the paths. A world that functioned perfectly without her.

She took another bite of toast, slower this time.

The quiet stretched.

Then came a sound—the soft squeak of leather boots against marble.

A man appeared in the doorway. Young, golden-haired, dressed in dark plum with a signet ring glinting on his finger. He looked at Sabine first, smiled faintly, then turned to the Duke.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You are,” said the Duke.

The newcomer entered anyway.

Sabine glanced between them.

“This must be the Duchess,” the man said smoothly. “Returned from your travels. I’ve heard so much.”

She stood as etiquette demanded—awkwardly.

He reached for her hand and kissed it gently. “Lord Julian Elbourne,” he said. “At your service.”

Sabine studied his face. Too handsome. Too confident. The kind of man who could charm a crowd while stealing their wallets.

Julian turned to the Duke. “You didn’t mention your wife was… different.”

The Duke didn’t reply.

Sabine smiled faintly. “It’s a common theme this morning.”

Julian’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, Your Grace, I’m delighted you’ve returned. We feared Ravener had swallowed you whole.”

Sabine folded her hands. “It nearly did.”

Julian arched a brow but said nothing more. The Duke stood slowly, pushing back his chair.

“Julian,” he said coolly, “why are you here?”

“Business, of course.” He flashed a grin. “And curiosity. The former can wait.”

Sabine watched the men silently.

The Duke gave her a final glance—one she couldn’t read—before turning on his heel and walking out, his coat trailing like a banner behind him.

Julian turned to her once they were alone.

“So,” he said lightly, “how long do you intend to keep pretending?”

Sabine’s smile faded.

Julian stepped closer. Not threatening. Not yet.

“You’re not Celeste,” he whispered. “And I don’t care.”

Sabine’s pulse spiked.

He gave her a half-bow, voice like velvet. “I only care what you do next.”

And then, with maddening calm, he walked out.

Leaving her in a room full of silverware, cooling tea, and far too many mirrors.