You hadn't listened.

You'd caught his eye across the crowded ballroom, and something in his gaze had pinned you in place. Not hunger. Not interest. Something more terrifying: certainty. As if he'd already decided you were his before you ever knew his name.

Now, you knew that look well. You saw it every morning when he watched you wake, and every night when he drew you close in the dark. The same quiet possessiveness that made him correct your posture, adjust the clasp of your necklace, and murmur, My dear, you're wearing this wrong, before fixing it himself.

The Gaunt Manor had become your sanctuary. Its high ceilings echoed with his footsteps, its dark corridors held the scent of old parchment and his cologne, and its walls had absorbed both his silences and the rare moments when his mouth curved into something close to a smile.

But tonight, the sanctuary was breached.

The door to the study slammed open with enough force to knock a vase from the side table. It shattered against the marble floor, sharp and accusing, and there—backlit by the flickering sconces of the entrance hall—stood a woman.

Only the ghost was very much alive, standing in your home, her light-brown waves slightly wind-tossed, her practical robes travel-worn, and her brown eyes fixed on you with something between desperation and calculation.