"Put on this dress, and I will marry you." Julian Vance spoke the words not with tender romance, but with the cold, absolute authority of a king offering a binding decree.

The wedding reception was a silent, surreal affair held in the grand dining hall. Long oak tables were covered in silver platters filled with roasted meats, dark wines, and exotic fruits, yet no one ate. Julian sat at the head of the table, sipping dark red wine from a silver goblet, chatting casually about corporate land acquisitions as if nothing unusual had occurred in the chapel.

Anna sat beside him, her hands resting nervously in her lap under the table. Her index finger throbbed with a dull, unnatural heat where Julian had cut her.

"You haven't touched your wine, my darling," Julian noted, gesturing toward her glass.

"I'm not thirsty, Julian," Anna said quietly. "I'm tired. I would like to retire for the night."

Julian’s lips curved into a cold, satisfied smile. "Of course. The bridal suite in the West Wing has been prepared for you. I have some late-night estate business to finish in my study, but I will join you shortly."

He stood up, kissed her cheek—his lips felt like ice against her skin—and walked out of the hall accompanied by two of his dark-suited guards.

The moment the grand doors closed behind him, Anna stood up. She didn't head toward the West Wing.

Instead, she slipped through the service pantry door, slipping silently past two sleeping kitchen servants. She needed answers. She needed to know who Clara was, what happened one year ago, and why her blood had turned black against Julian's marriage book.

She navigated the labyrinthine hallways of Blackwood Manor, keeping to the shadows. The estate was massive, built like a medieval fortress merged with Victorian architecture.

Eventually, she found herself standing before a heavy iron-reinforced door at the end of the second-floor corridor—the entrance to the long-abandoned East Wing.

A heavy brass padlock held the chain closed.

Anna reached into her silk dress pocket. While Mrs. Gable had been adjusting her dress earlier, Anna had discreetly swiped a heavy ring of iron skeleton keys from the housekeeper’s apron.

She tried the first key. It didn't fit. She tried the second. On the fourth try, the brass lock clicked open with a heavy metallic sound.

Anna pushed the iron door open. The air that rushed out from the East Wing was freezing, smelling heavily of sea salt, rot, and old paper.

She stepped inside, holding a small wax candle she had taken from the dining hall.

The East Wing was covered in thick layers of dust and spiderwebs. Furniture was draped in white sheets that looked like crouching ghosts in the candlelight. She walked down the long corridor until she reached a grand master bedroom at the end of the hall.

She pushed the door open.

Unlike the rest of the abandoned wing, this room wasn't covered in dust sheets.

On the center vanity table sat expensive cosmetics, perfume bottles, and jewelry boxes—all left open as if someone had been using them only hours ago. On the grand four-poster bed lay a familiar object.

Anna approached the bed, her candle shaking in her hand.

Lying on the dark velvet mattress was another white silk wedding dress—identical to the one Anna was currently wearing.

Except this dress was torn to ribbons at the waist, covered in thick, dark, dried blood stains, and pinned to the silk chest was a yellowed newspaper article from one year ago.