The dreams returned with a vengeance that night.
She found herself back in the mansion, but nothing was quite the same. The wallpaper was gilded, the rugs brighter, the air perfumed with rose and something sharper. Laughter drifted down the corridors—real, vibrant, filled with the thrill of forbidden fun. She heard the clink of glasses, the trill of a piano, and the echo of a voice that sent shivers down her spine.
She wandered, barefoot and bold, through shifting halls. The doors led her to places that shouldn't exist: a moonlit garden where statues wept fragrant tears, a ballroom where masked dancers spun in slow, elegant circles, oblivious to the world beyond.
As Jolene passed through a candlelit drawing room, she felt him—close, too close. Edward emerged from the shadows, his eyes burning silver in the half-light. His presence wrapped around her like smoke and velvet.
"Still wandering, little ghost?" His voice was a caress and a warning.
Jolene squared her shoulders. "Why do you keep pulling me here? What do you want from me?"
He circled her, dangerously graceful. "You're the one who crossed the threshold, Jolene. The house chose you. I'm only here to see what you'll do."
She stood her ground, refusing to flinch even as he stopped mere inches from her. She could feel his breath on her skin, could see the flicker of longing—and something wilder—in his gaze.
"Tell me," she whispered. "Who are you really?"
For a moment, she saw the man beneath the legend—the pain, the hunger, the loneliness carved deep as the marble pillars of the house. But Edward only smiled, wicked and wounded.
"I am the master of nothing. And everything," he said softly. "But tonight, Jolene, I am only a dream."
He vanished, leaving her in a room filled with moonlight and the haunting promise of more.
Jolene awoke breathless, heart thundering, the taste of his name on her lips. She found a silver cufflink on her pillow—Edward's initials engraved in looping script, impossible and undeniable.