The wind howled through the corridors of the Glass House like the scream of something ancient and broken. Curtains tore from their rods, portraits tilted off their hooks, and golden chandeliers swung as if shaken by unseen hands.
Lucien stood at the threshold of his room, frozen.
Seraphine stood inside, her back to him.
She turned slowly, notebook clutched in her pale hand.
Her face was unreadable—except for her eyes. Those eyes that once looked at him with such desperate love now glinted with betrayal, fury, and something deeper. Something darker.
"You lied to me," she whispered. The wind answered her with a groan.
"Seraphine—" he stepped forward, but she flung the notebook at his chest. It struck hard, and fell open on the floor. Plans. Sketches. A list of possible exit points. A map of the house. A calculation of the gold.
"You wrote about leaving." Her voice cracked. "After everything. After I gave you everything."
The house seemed to shudder with her grief.
"I didn't mean—" Lucien began, heart pounding.
"LIAR!" she screamed.
The walls echoed her cry, like the house itself was furious now. A vase exploded behind her.
"I trusted you," she said, her voice low again. "I let you kiss me. Touch me. Love me. And in the end... the house was right. You're all the same."
She moved toward him. Not slowly—purposefully. Like a predator. Like a ghost with a vendetta.
Lucien stumbled back, nearly slipping on the cold marble floor.
"Seraph, please listen to me!"
"LISTEN?!" she shrieked. "You said I wasn't just a ghost! You said you wanted me! And now what? You're just like the rest. All of you… greedy. All of you, liars."
The wind surged.
A window burst open.
The lights flickered.
Lucien turned and ran.
She chased.
"YOU WERE MINE, VALE!" she screamed behind him, barefoot on the floor, wind whipping her hair like wild fire. "AND I WAS YOURS! WHY?! WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME?!"
"Seraph, I didn't—!" he yelled over the wind, running down the corridor, heart threatening to stop. "I didn't mean for it to happen like this!"
"You were going to leave me!" she cried. "You wanted to escape! Admit it!"
Lucien turned to face her, breathless. "Yes! I did! I was going to. I didn't expect to care—"
"Then you don't love me!" she hissed. "You never did. And now I see it. The house was right."
She took a step forward, and something in the air shifted. As if the house was waiting for her command.
Lucien stepped back again, eyes wide. "Seraphine, if you kill me… that's it. You'll never know the truth."
Her eyes narrowed, tears spilling.
Lucien froze as the air shifted again.
The house listened.
The wind howled like a beast unchained.
Seraphine raised her voice, trembling with fury. "Stop telling me more lies!"
And then—it happened.
The floor beneath his feet trembled.
From the walls, blackened iron chains burst forth like living things—serpents made of steel.
They snapped around his wrists before he could move.
"Seraph!" he shouted in disbelief, yanking back—but the chains pulled harder, dragging him toward the wall.
His back slammed against the cold stone. Iron tightened around his arms, his chest, his ankles. He was bound, arms stretched out, feet barely touching the ground.
The house was alive.
And it was obeying her.
Seraphine stood before him like a queen in mourning, tears still glittering on her cheeks—but her expression now carved from stone.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Unforgiving.
She slowly wiped the tears off her face with the back of her hand, her jaw set in fury. "You think this house was a curse? You think I was your mistake?"
She stepped closer, each footstep echoing like thunder.
"I'll make sure you wish you were never here. I'll make you regret being born."
Lucien's eyes widened, breath ragged. "Seraph, stop—"
"I'll make you beg me to kill you," she whispered, her voice deathly calm.
"And when you do…" she leaned in closer, her lips inches from his, her eyes wild with pain and wrath, "…I won't."
She stepped back again, gaze burning into his.
"Welcome back to the Glass Tomb, Lucien Vale," she whispered. "Your soul belongs to the house now."
The wind settled.
The chains groaned.
And the house began to hum.
A low, ancient sound.
As if it was feeding on this moment.
The house groaned once—then went utterly still.
The torches lining the halls blew out in one breathless gust.
And then—darkness.
Lucien's breath hitched. He blinked rapidly."Seraph?" he whispered.
No answer.
Only the sound of his own shallow breathing, the rattle of the chains, and the quiet thud of his heartbeat hammering in the pitch black.
"Seraph—please!"
He thrashed once. The chains didn't budge.
His voice cracked, desperate now. "Let me explain… I never said anything to hurt you. I never meant to… not a word of it was to hurt you—please, Seraph!"
But the silence was cruel.
And endless.
He couldn't feel her presence anymore. Not even the warmth of the house.It was as though she'd vanished completely.
"Seraph!" he screamed, voice raw. "Don't do this!"
Still, nothing.
Not the creak of the floorboards.
Not the whisper of silk.
Not the house's breath.
He was alone. Utterly, horrifyingly alone.
And in that silence, Lucien Vale—who had never once cried for anyone—felt tears burn down his cheeks.Not because of pain.Not because of fear.
But because he knew—she'd gone.