Chapter 1
The journey to the Murdstone estate was long, the carriage rocking gently as it carried you and your new husband through the mist-laden countryside. The landscape blurred past in muted greens and browns, the late afternoon light fading into a dusky grey. Edward sat beside you, his gloved hand resting atop yours, his grip firm—possessive, even. He had always been like that, a man who desired control over what was his. And now, you were his.
Your courtship had been brief, but dazzling. Edward had swept you off your feet with poetic letters, whispered promises, and evenings spent in candlelit drawing rooms where he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. He had spoken of his estate, his family name, and the legacy you would help him preserve. It had all felt like something out of a novel, and you—eager for adventure, for romance—had allowed yourself to be carried along in his current.
"We're nearly there, darling," he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I do hope you’ll love the estate as much as I do. My sister has been eagerly awaiting your arrival."
The thought of meeting Jane Murdstone had filled you with nervous anticipation ever since Edward first spoke of her. He had painted her as fiercely loyal, devoted to family above all else. But there had been an unspoken weight to his words, a careful selection of phrases that left you wondering what lay beneath. He spoke of her as one might speak of a guardian, a protector of something sacred—his past, his home, perhaps even himself.
As the carriage rumbled through the wrought-iron gates, the mansion came into view—a towering structure of dark stone, its windows like watchful eyes in the fog. It loomed over the land with an air of quiet menace, its gothic spires clawing at the grey sky.
A lone figure stood at the entrance, her posture rigid, her hands clasped before her. Jane Murdstone.
The carriage came to a halt, and before you could step down, Edward was there, offering his hand to help you. As your boots touched the damp earth, you lifted your gaze to Jane’s.
Her eyes, cold and assessing, flicked over you with the precision of a scalpel. Her lips pressed into a thin line, unreadable. She was tall, taller than most women, her dark dress severe against the pale of her skin. A single silver pin held her hair in place, not a strand out of order.
“Jane,” Edward greeted, his voice warm in a way that felt almost… measured. “At last, my wife is home.”
Jane’s gaze flicked to Edward’s before settling back on you. Slowly, she descended the steps, her footsteps near soundless. When she reached you, she extended a hand, gloved in soft black leather.
“Mrs. Murdstone,” she said, voice cool as winter air.
“Please, call me by my name,” you offered, hoping to bridge the formality between you.
A pause. Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she murmured, “Very well.”
She held your hand a second too long. Her fingers, though gloved, tightened ever so slightly before releasing you. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her gaze, gone before you could grasp it.
Edward smiled. “Shall we go inside? It’s dreadfully cold out here.”
Jane stepped aside, gesturing toward the heavy oak doors. “Welcome to your new home.”
As you crossed the threshold, the air shifted—cooler, heavier. The scent of aged wood and something faintly floral clung to the air, though it was neither inviting nor comforting. Shadows clung to the high archways, flickering in the dim candlelight.
Behind you, Jane shut the doors, the sound echoing through the grand hall. When you turned, you found her watching you—not with the warmth of a sister-in-law, but with something else entirely.
Possession.
Edward's hand found your waist, pulling you closer to his side, and for a brief moment, Jane’s lips twitched—as if she found the gesture amusing, or perhaps, unnecessary.
✢✦✢
Edward insisted on giving you a tour of the estate himself, leading you through long corridors adorned with heavy tapestries and paintings of Murdstone ancestors whose dark eyes seemed to follow you as you passed.
“The house has been in our family for generations,” Edward said proudly, his hand resting against the polished bannister as you descended a grand staircase. “Every stone, every beam, has a history.”
At his side, Jane walked in silence, her gaze fixed forward, offering no further insights into the home she had spent her life in.
He led you through a series of cavernous rooms—a vast drawing room lined with bookcases, a conservatory with glass panes fogged from the cold, a dimly lit dining hall where a long mahogany table stretched beneath a chandelier that had long lost its brilliance. You tried to imagine these rooms filled with warmth, with life, but they felt more like relics of a past long since buried.
When you reached the end of one corridor, Edward gestured toward a heavy wooden door. “My study,” he said. “You’re welcome to enter anytime, of course.”
Jane’s lips parted slightly, as if she might object, but she said nothing.
“And Jane’s quarters are just down that hall,” Edward continued. “She prefers her privacy.”
Jane’s gaze flickered toward you, something sharp in her eyes, but she remained silent.
When Edward finally led you back to your chambers, he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “I hope you’ll grow to love it here,” he murmured.
Behind him, Jane watched, her expression unreadable.
✢✦✢
The first night at the Murdstone estate was suffocating.
The grand bedroom Edward had led you to was beautiful, if haunting—tall windows shrouded in heavy velvet curtains, dark mahogany furniture that loomed rather than stood, a fireplace large enough to swallow a person whole. The bed, a grand four-poster draped in silken sheets, felt cold despite its lavishness.
Edward had left you there with a soft kiss and murmured words about needing to speak with Jane. You had expected him to return, but hours passed, and the house remained eerily silent.
You had never felt more alone.
The following days blurred into one another, a routine forming—meals in the vast, dimly lit dining hall, brief moments of conversation with Edward, and even briefer, more stilted encounters with Jane. She was always watching, her gaze heavy, unreadable. There was something unnerving about her presence, something that made you hesitate before stepping into a room she occupied.
One afternoon, you found yourself alone in the drawing room, running your fingers absentmindedly along the spines of old books. The air smelled faintly of dust and lavender, a scent that clung to the very bones of the house. You selected a book at random, flipping through its yellowed pages when a voice cut through the silence.
“You have peculiar taste.”
You turned sharply. Jane stood near the doorway, watching you with an expression of mild amusement.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” you admitted, closing the book.
Jane stepped forward, her boots barely making a sound against the rug. “Few people do.”
A shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if she was making a joke.
She reached for the book in your hands, her fingers brushing yours as she took it. “This one,” she murmured, inspecting the worn cover. “A tale of betrayal and misplaced trust.”
You swallowed. “Have you read it?”
Jane tilted her head slightly. “I’ve read many things.” She returned the book to the shelf with a deliberate slowness. “Tell me, do you believe a person can truly know another?”
The question caught you off guard. “I suppose… in time, yes.”
Jane hummed, the sound low and contemplative. “Time reveals much. And yet, some things remain hidden, even in plain sight.”
Her gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable, before she turned and strode toward the door. As she passed you, she reached out—not quite touching, just barely grazing her fingers over your sleeve.
Then she was gone, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before.
Edward, on the other hand, was attentive but distant. He spoke of business matters vaguely, often excusing himself after dinner to his study. When he was with you, he was warm, affectionate, but there was always a lingering tension, as if he were holding something back.
That evening, Edward found you in the drawing room, staring into the fireplace as the flames crackled softly. He sat beside you, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“You seem troubled,” he murmured.
You exhaled a soft laugh. “I suppose I am still adjusting.”
Edward tilted his head, regarding you carefully. “Jane can be difficult. Do not let her unsettle you.”
His words were meant to reassure, but they only deepened the unease curling in your stomach. There was something wrong in this house. And you were beginning to fear you were in far deeper than you had realized.