The rain in New York didn't wash things clean; it only turned the city's secrets into a muddy, suffocating gray.
Evelyn Vance stood before the full-length mirror in the dingy dressing room of the City Clerk's office, staring at the stranger reflected in the glass. The wedding dress was an insult—a three-season-old off-the-rack piece with lace that scratched her skin and a hem that had already sucked up the grime from the sidewalk. It was two sizes too big, cinched at the waist with a cheap silk ribbon that looked more like a noose.
"Don't look so miserable, Evelyn. It ruins the aesthetic of a 'blushing bride.'"
The sharp, manicured voice of her stepmother, Eleanor, cut through the silence. Eleanor leaned against the doorframe, checking her reflection in a compact mirror, her diamonds catching the dim fluorescent light.
"You should be thanking us," Eleanor continued, not looking up. "The Nightwoods could have asked for Victoria. Instead, your father convinced them that a... seasoned girl like you would be much better suited to care for a man in Silas Nightwood's condition."
Evelyn's grip tightened on her bouquet of wilted lilies. "By 'seasoned,' you mean the one you already branded a disgrace. And by 'care for,' you mean act as a glorified nurse for a man everyone says is a monster."
Eleanor finally looked at her, her eyes cold as flint. "I mean you are the debt payment, Evelyn. Your brother's medical bills didn't pay themselves. That experimental heart surgery in Switzerland? The private tutors? That was Nightwood money. Now, the bill is due."
A sharp sting blossomed on Evelyn's cheek before she could blink. Her head snapped to the side.
"Don't you dare use that tone with me," Eleanor hissed, stepping closer. "You will walk out there, you will sign that contract, and you will become Mrs. Nightwood. If Silas Nightwood wants a wife who sits in the corner and stays silent, you will be a statue. If he wants a punching bag, you will be leather. Do you understand?"
Evelyn didn't cry. She had run out of tears three years ago when her father had publicly disowned her to save the family's reputation from a scandal she hadn't even caused. She slowly turned her face back to Eleanor, her blue eyes burning with a quiet, lethal intensity that made the older woman momentarily flinch.
"I understand perfectly," Evelyn whispered, her voice like crushed velvet. "I am the sacrifice. But remember this, Eleanor—sacrifices usually involve blood. Just make sure it isn't yours when I finally decide I've paid enough."
The "ceremony" lasted exactly four minutes.
There was no music. No guests. Not even a groom.
Silas Nightwood's legal counsel, a man named Marcus Thorne who looked like he was carved out of granite and wore a suit that cost more than Evelyn's entire life, stood in the groom's place. He didn't offer a smile. He only offered a fountain pen.
"Sign here, Miss Vance," Marcus said, his voice devoid of emotion. "And here. This clause stipulates that you will reside at the Nightwood Estate effective immediately. You will not grant interviews. You will not leave the grounds without supervision. And most importantly, you will not disturb Mr. Nightwood's privacy."
Evelyn stared at the ink. It looked like blood on the white parchment. Mrs. Silas Nightwood. The name felt heavy, a golden shackle settling around her throat.
As she scrawled her name, her hand didn't shake. Behind her, she could hear her half-sister, Victoria, giggling into her phone, likely live-tweeting the "fall of the fallen socialite."
"Is that all?" Evelyn asked, handing the pen back to Marcus.
"The car is waiting," Marcus replied, tucking the documents into a leather briefcase. "Mr. Nightwood expects his guests to be punctual, even if he doesn't feel the need to greet them himself."
The drive to the Nightwood Estate took two hours, moving away from the neon pulse of Manhattan and into the oppressive silence of the Westchester woods. The rain intensified, drumming against the roof of the black Rolls-Royce like a thousand accusing fingers.
Evelyn watched the trees blur past. Deep in the hidden pocket of her dress, her fingers brushed against something cold and hard—a small, encrypted USB drive.
Eleanor thought she was sending a lamb to the slaughter. Her father thought he was selling a useless asset. They didn't know that Evelyn had spent the last three years in the shadows of the dark web, building an empire out of data and spite. They didn't know that the "disgrace" they had manufactured had only given her the perfect cover to become 'V,' the ghost investor who had recently shorted three of the Vance family's major holdings.
She wasn't just going to the Nightwood Estate to survive. She was going there because Silas Nightwood held the one thing she needed to finish her father off: the 2019 audit reports of Vance International.
The car slowed as it approached a set of iron gates that looked like the entrance to a gothic fortress. Two stone gargoyles perched on the pillars, their sightless eyes watching as the gates groaned open.
The Nightwood Mansion sat atop a jagged hill, a sprawling monolith of dark stone and ivy. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, like a predatory cat at rest.
"We're here," Marcus announced. He glanced at Evelyn in the rearview mirror, a flicker of something—was it pity?—crossing his stoic face. "A word of advice, Mrs. Nightwood. The house has ears. And the master of the house... he has very little patience for curiosity."
Evelyn stepped out of the car. The wind whipped her thin dress around her legs, the cold biting into her marrow. She looked up at the darkened windows of the third floor. For a split second, she thought she saw a silhouette—a tall, imposing shadow standing behind the glass.
Then, the curtain flickered, and the shadow was gone.