She met him on a stormy night—tall, unreadable, with eyes like a dying flame. His name was Lucien. The villagers called him cursed, whispered tales of his tragic past and the mansion that stood silent atop the hill.
But Elise was drawn to the darkness. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice curled like smoke around her heart. He gave her black roses, thorns still intact, and watched her bleed with every touch.
“Love,” he said once, “is not always kind. Mine is sharp.”
Still, she stayed.
She danced in the candlelit halls of his ruin, wore the silk gowns he gave her, and kissed him like he was both heaven and hell. He never smiled, but his eyes betrayed a quiet desperation—as if he wanted to be saved, but feared what salvation might cost.
One night, she found the locked room.
Inside were paintings—portraits of women, each with her face, each with red eyes.
“You knew,” he whispered behind her. “And yet you stayed.”
“I wanted to know what it meant to be loved by a monster,” she said.
He took her hand. Cold. Final.
“And now,” Lucien murmured, “you do.”
---
Part 2: The Portrait Room
Elise couldn’t stop thinking about the portraits. Each one bore her face, twisted in different expressions—some weeping, some serene, some… lifeless.
She demanded answers.
Lucien stood by the tall window, moonlight casting long shadows. “They’re not you,” he said. “They’re what I’ve lost.”
“How many before me?” she asked.
“Too many.”
“But I’m still here.”
He turned to her, something wild in his eyes. “For now.”
Thunder rolled across the sky. Elise stepped closer, her heart racing.
“Then let me be the last.”
Lucien’s hand brushed her cheek, his touch both fire and frost. “If you stay, you’ll bleed. I destroy what I love.”
She held his gaze. “Then love me carefully.”
In the distance, a rose bush bloomed—dark red petals unfolding like secrets.
---
Part 3: The Crimson SecretPart
The rain hadn’t stopped in days.
Elise wandered the halls of the mansion, guided by candlelight and whispers that weren’t hers. She hadn’t seen Lucien since the night of the portraits. He had vanished into his shadows again.
In the library, behind a loose stone in the fireplace, she found a leather-bound book—old, brittle, and sealed with dried crimson wax.
Inside were letters—centuries old—written in Lucien’s hand. One name kept repeating.
“Lilith.”
Elise’s fingers trembled as she read. Lucien once loved a woman named Lilith who was burned as a witch by the villagers. In his grief and rage, he made a pact with something ancient—something inhuman.
“Let them suffer. Let them feel what it’s like to lose love again and again.”
And so it began.
Every woman who loved him… became a mirror of Lilith. Every one of them loved him to death.
Elise shut the book.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m not a ghost of your past. I’m not her.”
The door creaked behind her.
Lucien stood there, drenched from the rain, eyes glowing faintly red. “You weren’t supposed to find that.”
She stepped closer. “Then you shouldn’t have left me alone with your ghosts.”
“I was protecting you.”
“You’re the danger, Lucien. And I’m not afraid.”
He gripped her wrist gently, yet firmly. “Then you’re a fool.”
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. “Maybe. But I won’t be another name in your cursed book.”
For the first time, his expression cracked—not cold, not cruel… but shattered.
“Elise… what if I’ve already started to love you?”
---
Part 4: Love Like Poison
Elise couldn’t sleep.
Lucien’s words echoed through her mind—“What if I’ve already started to love you?”
Love, in his world, was not warmth. It was a blade. And she was already bleeding.
Each day, the mansion seemed darker. The air colder. Elise felt herself changing. Her dreams were no longer her own. In them, she wore black veils, stood in graveyards, kissed Lucien as the sky bled red.
She wanted to run. But she couldn't leave him.
One night, she found him in the garden of withered roses, kneeling beside a gravestone. Her name was carved on it—Elise Harrow.
“I had it made the night we met,” Lucien confessed, not turning around. “The curse shows me how it ends.”
She stepped forward, voice hollow. “So I die.”
“You all do,” he said. “It’s not a matter of if. Just when.”
“But this time,” she said, standing behind him, “you’re not alone.”
Lucien rose slowly, his hands clenched. “You don’t understand. The more I love you, the faster the curse takes hold.”
His lips brushed hers in a desperate, broken kiss.
“Then don’t love me,” she whispered.
“I can’t stop.”
Suddenly, the wind howled. The gravestones cracked. And Elise felt something rip inside her—like a tether snapping loose.
She fell to her knees, gasping, blood trickling from her nose. Lucien caught her, eyes wild with fear.
“It’s starting,” he said, holding her tight. “You’ve awakened it.”
---
Part 5: The Last Rose
The curse had awakened.
Elise could feel it burning through her veins—cold fire, ancient and merciless. Her reflection no longer looked entirely human. Her eyes flickered red in the dark, just like his.
Lucien had locked himself away in the west wing, trying to find a way to stop it. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t spoken. His grief was louder than thunder.
On the fifth night, Elise stood at the edge of the rose garden, where it had all begun. The flowers had bloomed blood red, thorns longer than daggers. In the center, a single white rose had appeared.
The spellbreaker.
She had read of it in the book. One rose. One death. One ending.
Lucien appeared behind her, barely breathing. “Don’t.”
“You said the curse feeds on love,” she whispered. “Then let it feed one last time.”
He reached for her, but she stepped back, hand hovering over the rose. “You’ve lost too much already, Lucien. Let me be the last.”
“I can’t watch you die,” he begged, voice cracked and raw.
“Then don’t.” She smiled softly, tearfully. “Just remember me.”
She touched the rose. A flash of white light burst through the night like a scream, and the earth shook beneath them.
When Lucien opened his eyes, Elise was gone.
But the curse was broken.
The mansion began to breathe again. The portraits faded. The thorns receded. And in the garden, where she had stood, the white rose remained—untouched, eternal.
Years later, Lucien still walked the garden every dawn. He never took another lover. He never smiled again.
But every morning, he whispered to the rose:
“I remember you.”
---
