The morning light spilled through the glass panels, soft and golden, casting a dreamy glow across Seraph's bare shoulders. Lucien lay asleep, peaceful for once, his arm stretched over the space she had just occupied.
But she was already on her feet.
Silent and graceful, she draped her nightgown over herself and slipped out of her room, her heart pounding in a rhythm she didn't understand. She told herself it wasn't doubt—it was trust, that needed proof.
She padded down the corridor to his room, the one place he always kept her from. But now she had permission. She was the house, after all. And more importantly—she was his.
The door creaked open with a soft groan. The room smelled like him—warm, soft spice and dust. Her eyes scanned the bed, the bedside table. And then, just beneath his pillow, she found it.
The notebook.
Her hand trembled as she pulled it out, heart thudding in her throat. She opened it, page by page, reading the sketches, the scribbled plans, the questions he had written about the house, about her.
Drawings of the rooms.
Timelines.
A map.
And one page where he had written:
"She's more ghost than woman. Her obsession could be my key to freedom."
Her vision blurred.
Another line:
"She trusts me now. I just need to find the heart of the house."
The room began to feel colder.
Meanwhile, Lucien stirred awake in Seraph's bed, stretching slowly with a lazy, peaceful smile. "Seraph?" he murmured, reaching for her. His hand found only cool sheets.
He sat up instantly.
"Seraph?"
He pulled on his shirt, heart skipping painfully, and stepped out into the corridor. "Seraph?" he called louder, his voice echoing against the glass walls. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
Her name tasted like panic.
When he reached his room, the door was ajar. His chest tightened. He pushed it open and froze.
There she stood—Seraph—in her silk gown, back to him, notebook in hand, still turned to that single page.
"Seraph…" his voice was low, breathless, like he'd just been punched.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes were dry. Deadly.
"You said you loved me," she whispered. Not a question. A statement. One full of betrayal.
Lucien took a step forward. "Wait—Seraph, I—"
She threw the notebook at him.
It landed at his feet with a thud, pages flipping open like wings.
"You were planning this," she said, voice sharp and shaking. "All this time. You kissed me, you touched me, you slept with me—"
Lucien opened his mouth, but she didn't let him speak.
"You were going to use me," she said. "Just like he did. Just like every single one of them did."
"Seraph, listen to me—"
"No. You listen," she hissed, stepping toward him now, eyes glowing with something wild. "I gave you everything. My secrets. My body. My soul. And you… You drew maps under your pillow like a coward."
Lucien's heart was breaking. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I—" He swallowed hard. "I didn't know I'd feel this way about you."
Her expression flickered, almost painfully, but then hardened again. "And what way is that, Vale? Do you feel love before or after you find the exit?"
Silence.
Outside the window, the sky darkened.
Inside, the Glass Tomb began to hum.