Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The first one shows a woman maybe five years older than me with platinum blonde hair pulled back in an elegant updo. She’s wearing a flowing emerald dress that looks expensive, and her smile is radiant—genuine in a way that reaches her eyes. The nameplate reads “Cordelia.”
Next to her, a brunette, her hair in loose waves, wears a simple cream blouse and dark jeans, casual but polished. She’s holding a single blue rose—one of those impossible blooms from Blue’s greenhouse—and her smile is small but warm. “Margaret.”
The pattern continues down the wall. “Eleanor” in a soft pink sweater that brings out the warmth in her brown eyes, her smile quiet but real. “Vivian” with her dark hair styled in modern layers, wearing a burgundy blazer over dark pants, looking directly at the camera with steady confidence. “Catherine” with long blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, dressed in a flowing bohemian-style top, her eyes bright and clear. “Sophia” in a tailored navy jacket that screams professional success, her posture straight, chin lifted slightly.
All recent, from the look of the clothing. All holding single blue roses. All with natural, unforced smiles.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to the empty hallway.
Duffy’s warnings echo in my memory: “The rumors say Blue’s had seven wives, Saylor. Seven.”
I had dismissed it as gossip. Small town rumors about the mysterious rich guy with the Gothic mansion. But here are seven portraits of beautiful women, all with that same kind of smile, all holding his signature blue roses.
Blue never said much when Duffy mentioned the wife rumors. When I’d laughed about it and called the whole thing ridiculous, he’d just said, “Small towns love their stories,” with that unreadable expression of his.
My mouth goes dry as I count them again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Exactly seven, just like the rumors said. Seven women who all look content in a way that’s hard to define.
But what happened to them? And why do the rumors insist they were wives?
And Blue’s one rule about the house: The third floor is off-limits. Private. His.
What could he be keeping up there that requires such secrecy?
The thought makes me restless, making my palms go clammy. Blue specifically asked me to avoid the third floor. Said it was private, like he was protecting his personal space. But what if he wasn’t protecting his privacy? What if he was protecting his secrets?
I shouldn’t go upstairs. I know I shouldn’t. Blue asked me to respect his one boundary, and given everything he’s done for me, I owe him that much trust.
But doubt is a poison that spreads through every rational thought. I can’t stop staring at Margaret’s face, at the way she looks so young and hopeful. Can’t stop wondering what happened to her, to all of them.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Blue looked at me in the greenhouse, possessiveness when he said I was his to claim.
What happens when he gets tired of claiming me? When the novelty wears off and I become just another beautiful thing he wants to keep forever?
My feet are moving before my brain catches up, carrying me up the remaining stairs, past the second-floor landing, toward territory I’ve never explored. The hallway that leads to the third floor is different from the rest of the house—narrower, with lower ceilings that make everything feel more intimate and claustrophobic.
At the top of the stairs, I find a door I haven’t seen before. Heavy wood painted deep midnight blue, with an ornate iron handle that’s cold beneath my palm. When I turn it, the door opens with the smooth silence of expensive hinges and regular maintenance.
The sight beyond stops me completely.
The hallway stretches ahead like a city block, lined with doors on both sides like the world’s most elegant hotel corridor. But it’s what hangs from the ceiling that makes my breath catch. Hundreds of skeleton keys suspended on nearly invisible wire, creating a curtain of brass and iron that sways gently in air currents I can’t feel. They range from tiny delicate things no bigger than my thumb to massive medieval-looking contraptions that could unlock castle gates.
Each key catches the light from wall sconces positioned between the doors, creating patterns of shadow and gleam that shift and dance with every slight movement. The whole thing gives me the creeps, but I can’t stop staring.
And the doors. Jesus, the doors.
Each one is different. Some painted in rich jewel tones, others natural wood polished to mirror brightness, a few that look like they’re covered in fabric or leather. But they all have one thing in common: intricate keyholes that seem to beckon like dark, judging eyes.
I move deeper into the hallway, my footsteps muffled by a runner carpet so thick my heels sink into it with each step. The keys hang just low enough that I have to duck slightly to avoid them, their metal surfaces catching the light as I pass beneath. Some of them look newer than others, like they’ve been polished recently.