The Puppet pulls closer

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...Chapter 5: ...

Because in his game, even love was a weapon.

The morning after the package arrived, the mansion felt suffocating. Light struggled to filter through the tall, heavy drapes, and the shadows clung to the corners, twisting and pooling as if alive. Each room, each hallway, seemed to hold its breath, waiting, listening. Every sound—a distant creak, a soft sigh of wind—felt amplified, threatening. I walked slowly, my fingers grazing the cool marble of the walls, the polished wood of the banisters. Every step echoed, and I flinched at my own heartbeat.

Ethan stayed close. His presence was a mixture of comfort and tension, like a shield I couldn’t fully rely on and a weight I couldn’t shake. He moved like a predator, eyes sweeping the rooms, scanning doors, windows, even the hidden passages Damien had whispered about. And yet, even he looked unsettled. The tightness in his jaw, the dark flicker in his eyes—he knew the gravity of the threat better than anyone. Mathéo wasn’t just manipulating us from afar; he was threading fear and doubt into every breath we took, every decision we made.

Kyra remained unnervingly calm, her movements fluid, almost detached, like water gliding over stone. She smiled that serene, perfect smile, but there was an edge—subtle, sharp—that made my stomach knot. She knew something we didn’t. I could feel it in the way her eyes lingered on Ethan, and in the faint tilt of her head as if she were observing a game only she understood. Was she ally, or enemy? Pawn, or another player entirely? My trust wavered before I could even consider it.

The day dragged on under a tense silence. Even Damien, usually composed and charming, moved with brittle precision. Every laugh felt forced, every word weighed down by caution. It was as if the mansion itself had become a stage, and Mathéo was the invisible director, pulling strings, orchestrating every glance, every pause, every shadow.

By late afternoon, I was alone in the library, running my hands over the spines of old books for comfort. The silence was broken by my phone vibrating sharply against the desk. The number was unrecognizable. My fingers trembled as I answered.

“Lyra,” hissed a voice, low, deliberate, and icy, “do you feel the strings yet? You are already caught.”

The line clicked dead. I exhaled shakily. Ethan’s hand covered mine in a grip that was firm, grounding, yet also warning. “He’s watching us,” he murmured, voice dark, tight. “Every hesitation, every glance, every secret we reveal… he sees it. He learns. And he waits.”

I wanted to run. To hide. To scream. But deep down, I knew it was impossible. Mathéo’s reach was everywhere—in the mansion, in our minds, in our fears. He didn’t just want to scare us; he wanted to break us. To test us. To see how far we’d go to protect each other, and how far we’d betray ourselves in the process.

Evening came, pale and oppressive. I wandered the gardens, needing air, needing space, but even the night offered no comfort. The moonlight was weak, silver brushing over the fountain and hedges. A shadow flickered near the trees, fast, almost unreal. I froze. My pulse thundered in my ears. Then, pinned carefully to the fountain, a note in black, precise letters:

"Do you trust him?"

The words struck like a blade. Ethan? Damien? Kyra? Could anyone here be trusted—or were we all pawns in Mathéo’s merciless game? The fear dug deep, gnawing at me, making every breath sharp.

I heard movement behind me, soft, deliberate. Ethan emerged from the shadows, his presence a mix of comfort and warning. His hand brushed my shoulder, firm, grounding. “Lyra… he’s testing us,” he murmured, voice low, dark. “Testing our trust, our fear, our love. He wants to see what makes us crack. We have to understand him before he forces us to a breaking point.”

I nodded, but the truth was suffocating. The mansion had become a labyrinth of secrets, obsessions, and invisible threats. Every glance, every whispered word, every heartbeat was measured, analyzed, and cataloged by someone who seemed omnipresent. My own thoughts felt like traps, and I couldn’t tell if my fear was mine, or if Mathéo had planted it.

Hours later, as I lay in my room, staring at the dark ceiling, I heard the faintest click outside my window. A shadow moved in the garden—fast, deliberate. I held my breath. Was it real? Or just a trick of my imagination? The answer didn’t matter. Mathéo had already won, simply by making me doubt what was safe, what was real, what I could trust.

And I realized, with chilling clarity, that this was no longer just a game of manipulation. This was survival. Every secret, every desire, every betrayal could be turned into a weapon. And Mathéo’s next move would be closer, sharper, more personal.

Because in his game, no one was untouchable—not even those we loved most.

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Questions for readers:

Is Ethan truly safe—or could he be the next target?

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THANK YOU

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