Chapter 2: Borrowed Skin

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.”