The room was enormous—dark, cold, air thick with something metallic. My eyes adjusted slowly, and when they did… something inside me curled into a tight, trembling knot.
A long glass case stretched across the left wall.
Inside it—
Hair.
Bundles of hair.
Black, brown, blond… soft curls tied by ribbons, straight strands braided neatly—each still attached to their scalps. Cleaned, dried, arranged by length. Labels beneath them with dates.
My knees nearly buckled.
On the opposite side, shelves held… things.
Pieces.
Not whole—not bodies, nothing fresh, nothing gory.
Cleaned pieces. Preserved.
Fingers, arranged like jewelry.
Broken teeth in small jars.
Sections of skin—stitched, patterned, flattened like fabric samples.
He walked through them casually, like it was a museum.
My breath turned shallow, tight, painful.
He reached the end of the room and turned to me, eyes calm, voice soft.
"This," he said, gesturing lightly, "is what happens to people who think they can get away from me."
He stepped closer.
"You will never end up here… if you obey."
The promise slid through me like a blade.
He brushed his fingers along my cheek, gentle in a way that made my skin crawl.
"But if you try to run again," he murmured, "I'll make sure you last long enough that I can collect every piece of you."
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't breathe.
"Understand?"
I nodded.
I didn't trust my voice.
He smiled—not cruel, not angry. Just satisfied.
Like a teacher whose student finally understood the lesson.
"Good girl," he said softly, and tugged me back toward the door.
The heavy room disappeared behind us with a click.
My legs felt as though they weren't mine when he finally released me in the hallway.
"Now," he said lightly, as if he hadn't just shown me hell, "go to the kitchen. You're cooking for me."
And he walked away.
Leaving me standing there—shaking, cold, and absolutely certain of one thing:
If I didn't kill him first,
I would become one of his trophies.
__________
I turned on the TV, hoping for a distraction from the nightmare that had become my life. The channel switched automatically to the morning news, and my eyes caught the headline before the anchor even spoke.
"Tragic Fall: Industrialist Found Dead After Falling from Skyscraper."
I froze, hand trembling over the remote. My father's rival—he had always been in the papers, always scheming, always causing trouble—was dead.
The anchor went on: his body was ruined, broken horribly after falling on the steel rods below. "Authorities are calling it an accident…" the voice droned.
But something inside me screamed that it wasn't. My heart hammered. I knew enough to sense it—too many things didn't add up. My gut told me it was murder.
And yet… I couldn't ignore the truth. Men like him—like my father's rival—he had countless enemies. Powerful people who would have been happy to see him fall. The world didn't mourn someone like that.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, eyes glued to the screen as they showed the building, the rods, the police tape. My fingers dug into the blanket.
No matter what my heart whispered, the news would call it an accident. The public would move on.
But in the back of my mind, a cold thought settled quietly:
People like him didn't die by accident. And people like him—everyone in their world—had enemies lurking everywhere.
I clenched my fists. My chest felt tight, twisted. Somewhere inside, a part of me wondered if this was a sign—or a warning.
Because in a place like mine, surrounded by him…
I was already a pawn in a game I didn't fully understand.
And pawns never got to choose when the board tilted.
_________
Pov of the 'chestnut haired person':
I tilt the glass, letting the dark liquid swirl once before touching my lips.
Night always tastes better—with alcohol, with silence, with secrets breathing in the walls of this mansion.
Tonight, it's my turn to be Aiden Vorghese.
Funny how easily the world believes in one man.
One face.
One name.
But out there, in the papers, in the business meetings, in the shadows of every deal—
Aiden Vorghese is two people.
And only one of us is the real monster.
I stare at my reflection in the glass cabinet opposite the bar.
Same jawline.
Same hair.
Same eyes that people call "warm brown."
But warmth has never existed inside me.
We tested our DNA once.
Nothing matched.
Not brothers.
Not cousins.
Not anything.
Just two orphans who learned early how to survive.
How to kill.
How to build an empire on blood without ever spilling it too publicly.
I set the glass down.
I haven't killed anyone in months.
Too many things to handle—business expansions, meetings, political clients who don't tolerate mess. And Aiden…
Aiden likes things clean.
He hates disruptions.
He hates questions.
He doesn't know what I am.
He doesn't know what he is either.
Aiden kills when he needs.
I kill because I enjoy it.
But Misty…
Ah, Misty.
She's exactly my type. Soft. Fragile. Afraid in all the right ways. And Aiden—idiot that he is—still isn't bored of her.
He wants to keep her.
He wants to "train" her.
I want to break her.
But I can't.
Not yet.
One mistake, one corpse he didn't approve, and Aiden will start asking questions he should've asked years ago.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.
Control yourself.
Just wait.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
Then I hear footsteps.
A soft rustle—someone moving through the hallway near the staff quarters.
A new maid.
I saw her earlier today when I passed the kitchen. Her eyes were too wide, too curious. She asked too many polite questions. I hate polite people. They always want something.
I remember the last maid.
Pretty girl.
Too sweet.
She saw something she shouldn't have.
I told Aiden she left.
Aiden believed me.
Why wouldn't he? Staff come and go. People vanish all the time around us.
I take another sip and smile faintly as a plan forms in my mind.
This new girl…
She's a problem.
What if she sees something?
What if she talks?
What if she tells Aiden something about me—something he isn't ready to face?
No.
That won't do.
A slow warmth spreads through me—not from the alcohol, but from the idea.
I could fix it.
Easily.
Quickly.
Quietly.
I could kill her tonight.
Dispose of her before dawn.
And tell Aiden she "ran away."
He'll believe it.
He always does.
I set the empty glass down, my heart finally steady, finally pleased.
Yes.
That's perfect.
Misty can wait.
But this maid?
She won't see the sunrise.