Chapter 95
Chapter 95:
Two days passed in a blur of tension and silence. Eliza spent her mornings and afternoons reading to Victoria, whose condition seemed conveniently stable yet persistently frail, and her evenings locking herself in the guest room the moment dinner was cleared. Anson kept his distance, lulling her into a false sense of security.
On the third night, a storm rolled in off the Atlantic.
Thunder rattled the windowpanes — a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. Rain lashed against the glass, cutting the house off from the rest of the world.
Eliza sat up in bed, her spine pressed against the wooden headboard. The book in her lap had been open to the same page for an hour. The words blurred together, meaningless ink on white paper.
The air inside Hyde Manor was always heavy, but tonight it felt suffocating, as though the house itself were holding its breath.
She looked at the door.
She had locked it. She had checked it twice. The click of the deadbolt had been the only sound capable of bringing her heart rate below a panic.
Then the doorknob turned.
It was a slow, deliberate motion. The brass handle rotated to the right, met the resistance of the lock, and stopped.
Eliza stopped breathing. She stared at the handle, her fingers digging into the duvet.
Go away, she pleaded silently. Just go away.
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A metallic scratching sound followed — a key sliding into the mechanism. Anson must have kept master keys to every room in his family’s mausoleum.
The lock clicked.
The sound was as loud as a gunshot in the silent room.
The door swung inward, revealing a slice of dark hallway. A figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim corridor light.
Anson.
He didn’t turn on the light. A flash of lightning illuminated his face for a split second — his eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his tie loosened around his neck.
The smell reached her before he moved. Scotch. Expensive, aged scotch, and the damp metallic scent of rain.
“Anson.” Eliza pulled the duvet up to her chin, her voice trembling despite every effort to make it hard. “Get out p>
He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked again.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. His words were slightly slurred, their edges softened by alcohol. “Knowing you’re just down the hall.” He took a step toward the bed.
“This is my room, Anson. We had an agreement,” Eliza said. Her eyes darted to the nightstand. Her phone.
“It used to be our room,” he corrected, moving closer, his movements uncoordinated but heavy. “Do you remember hiding in here during storms? You were terrified of thunder p>
“We were children, Anson. We aren’t children now.” Eliza shifted back until her shoulder blades met the headboard. “Leave p>
He ignored her. He reached the edge of the bed and sat down. The mattress dipped sharply under his weight, tilting her toward him.
Panic flared in her chest — hot and sharp.
She lunged for her phone on the nightstand. “I’m calling Victoria p>
Anson was faster. His hand shot out and snatched the device before her fingers could reach the screen. He tossed it casually onto the armchair across the room, where it landed with a soft thud on the velvet cushion.