"I don't remember when it happened. When I stopped being Ivy, and became something else."
Ivy didn't sleep that night. Not really.
Not after Miles kissed her. Not after he whispered her name like a prayer and dragged her into his world of darkness.
She woke tangled in his bedsheets, heart racing, skin fevered, lips still tingling.
The room felt different. Not just because of what happened—but because it was his. Not Miles's anymore. Not a boy's room.
It was Peter Quint's.
And she felt it. Like invisible hands brushing her skin whenever she stood too still. Like someone watching her from every mirror.
Even her reflection was different now. Pale lips. Hollowed cheeks. Eyes that held secrets.
Eyes that didn't always blink when she did.
Downstairs, Flora refused to look at her. She wouldn't eat. Wouldn't speak. Her doll was missing a head now. It stared from the tabletop, cracked and smiling.
"Flora," Ivy said gently. "What's wrong?"
"You kissed my brother," Flora said, voice flat.
Ivy flushed. "That's... not your business."
Flora blinked slowly. "He's not yours. He never was."
Then she turned back to the fireplace and began humming again.
The same tune.
Over and over.
By noon, the shadows were different. The walls of Bly seemed closer, like the house was breathing. The air was thick and heavy. Ivy couldn't stop sweating.
She tried opening a window. It wouldn't budge.
Tried leaving the house.
The front door was locked.
Every door was locked.
Except his.
When she finally saw Miles again, he was sitting on the staircase in the hallway, dressed in black from head to toe. His curls damp, boots muddy. His hands—bloody.
"Ivy," he said, not looking at her. "Come here."
She didn't hesitate.
She sat beside him. Their shoulders touched.
"What happened?" she whispered.
He glanced at her, slowly raising his fingers to her cheek.
"Don't ask things you don't want to know."
"I want to know everything."
He smiled, but it wasn't a boy's smile.
It was cruel.
"I found the man who used to own this house. The one who tried to stop Peter. He's not a problem anymore."
Her heart skipped. "What did you do?"
Miles leaned close, lips brushing her ear.
"I made sure no one ever touches you again."
Her blood turned to ice—and fire.
"You're mine now," he whispered. "You understand that, don't you?"
Ivy nodded.
Because deep down, she wanted to be.
That night, she returned to the old study. The room Kate used to hide in. Now it felt like a tomb. Dusty, cold, full of ghosts.
There was a box on the desk.
A locked one.
She found the key under the lamp.
Inside:
A photo of Peter Quint and Miss Jessel.
A letter addressed to "The Governess."
And a journal.
She opened the journal and flipped to the last page.
"He said he would never leave me. He said even death couldn't stop him. And now he's here. Every night. In Miles's body. In his voice. In his hands. I thought I could save the children. But I can't even save myself."
— J.
Ivy stared at the words for a long time. Her hands were trembling.
She looked up and saw Miles in the doorway.
He wasn't smiling.
"Put that down."
She didn't move.
He stepped closer.
"I said put it down."
"You're him," she whispered. "You've always been him."
Miles tilted his head.
"No, Ivy," he said softly. "I'm yours."
He crossed the room and took the journal from her hands.
Then he reached up and cupped her face.
"You've always been drawn to the dark. You just didn't know it."
Ivy's breath hitched.
"I know it now."
And just like that—she kissed him.
Longer this time. Deeper. She didn't fight it. She pulled him closer, fingers clutching at his shirt, tears stinging her eyes.
She didn't care.
She wanted him.
All of him.
Even the ghost inside.