(What you don't know won't kill you)
The mansion did not sleep.
She realized that on her third night there.
The walls whispered in low creaks. The chandeliers flickered though there was no wind. Shadows stretched longer than they should. Sometimes she swore the corridors rearranged themselves.
Yet no one else seemed disturbed.
Especially not Lucien.
After her first night in the mansion — where she had slept in a temporary chamber guarded by silence and unease — she was summoned the next morning.
Not by Lucien.
By maids.
Two young women stood outside her door when she opened it. Both dressed in deep burgundy gowns trimmed with black lace. Their posture was straight. Their expressions neutral.
"Good morning," the taller one said gently. "We have been assigned to you."
"To… me?" she asked, confused.
The shorter one smiled faintly. "Yes, miss."
Miss.
No one had ever called her that before.
"My name is Elara," the taller one said, bowing slightly. "And this is Mira."
"We are your handmaids," Mira added.
Her stomach dropped. "You must be mistaken."
Elara shook her head politely. "His command was very clear."
His.
Lucien.
Before she could protest further, they gestured for her to follow.
They led her through winding hallways she hadn't explored yet — deeper into the mansion, toward the east wing. The air there felt warmer. Softer.
They stopped before enormous double doors carved with golden winged symbols.
The doors opened slowly.
Her breath left her.
The room beyond was nothing short of royal.
A canopy bed draped in ivory silk stood in the center, large enough to fit royalty. Velvet curtains cascaded from the ceiling to the marble floors. A fireplace burned with silver flame. A balcony overlooked endless dark gardens glowing faintly under moonlight.
Mirrors framed in gold. A wardrobe bigger than any shop she had ever seen. Jewelry laid neatly on a dressing table.
She stepped inside slowly.
"This…" her voice trembled. "This can't be for me."
"It is," Mira said softly.
"Elara and I will assist you with bathing, dressing, meals, and anything else you require."
Require?
She had spent years fighting stray cats for scraps of food.
Now she had handmaids.
"Why?" she whispered.
Neither answered.
Instead, Elara carefully approached her and gently brushed a strand of tangled hair from her face.
"You are important," she said quietly.
Important.
The word felt heavy.
A week passed.
Seven days of warm baths. Clean clothes. Soft bedsheets. Food served on silver trays.
Seven days of not worrying about where her next meal would come from.
Lucien visited rarely.
When he did, it was brief.
He would stand near the fireplace, watching her with that unreadable gaze. Sometimes he asked how she was adjusting. Sometimes he said nothing at all.
But his presence always changed the air.
Heavy.
Commanding.
Possessive.
She didn't understand it.
But the staff did.
And they were beginning to talk.
She didn't notice the whispers at first.
Maids lowering their voices when she passed.
Guards watching her curiously.
Servants bowing slightly deeper than necessary.
Until one afternoon.
She had wandered further into the garden than usual. Elara and Mira were momentarily distracted arranging fresh flowers in her chamber.
She wasn't trying to eavesdrop.
But she heard her name.
"Well… not her name," one maid whispered near the fountain. "The girl."
Another scoffed softly. "Of course she doesn't know."
"Do you blame him?" a third added. "It's been centuries."
"Still," the first voice continued, "bringing a street girl to warm the prince's bed is bold… even for him."
Her steps froze.
Prince?
Warm whose bed?
They laughed quietly.
"Did you see the room he gave her? East wing. Queen's chamber."
"She must be special."
"Or just… convenient."
Blood rushed to her ears.
Prince?
They weren't talking about Lucien.
Were they?
No.
They couldn't be.
He never said he was royalty.
He never mentioned a throne.
He never—
"…he hasn't looked at anyone like that in decades," another maid murmured. "If the Demon King hears—"
The sound of footsteps approached.
The maids scattered instantly.
She stood there alone.
Heart pounding.
Prince.
Demon King.
Warm his bed.
Her chest tightened.
She didn't understand what they meant.
But she understood one thing clearly.
There was far more to Lucien than he had told her.
And somehow…
She was at the center of it.
That night, as she stood on her balcony staring at the endless dark horizon, she felt it again.
That pull in her chest.
The mark above her heart warmed slightly.
Behind her, the bedroom door opened quietly.
She didn't turn around.
"Lucien," she said softly.
Silence.
Then his voice.
"You should not wander alone."
She faced him slowly.
The firelight cast sharp shadows across his sculpted face.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He held her gaze.
"I told you."
"No," she said, steadier now. "You told me your name."
The air thickened between them.
Somewhere deep in the mansion, something shifted.
"And what," she continued carefully, "haven't you told me?"
For the first time…
Lucien did not answer immediately.