After a long pause, Ira rose from the bath. She dried herself slowly and slipped into the gown. The silk glided over her skin, cool at first, then warm with her body heat. It fit as if tailored precisely for her.
When she stepped out, they guided her through a quiet corridor into a private dressing chamber.
At its center stood a grand dressing table carved from ivory-toned wood, its curved legs etched with delicate floral details. An enormous oval mirror rose above it, framed in intricate gold filigree that shimmered under the chandelier's glow. The polished surface of the table reflected rows of crystal perfume bottles, silver-handled brushes, velvet-lined trays filled with jewels, and neatly arranged cosmetics displayed with museum-like precision.
They seated her before the mirror.
Soft hands moved through her damp hair, brushing patiently until it gleamed like dark satin. They left it loose, flowing freely down her back and over her shoulders. Gentle brushes swept across her face—light powder to smooth her skin, a subtle flush of color on her lips, faint definition to her eyes.
Ira stared at her reflection.
The girl in the mirror looked refined. Almost royal.
And she had no idea why any of this was happening.
--
Afterward, they escorted her downstairs to the formal dining room.
A long mahogany table stretched beneath a glittering crystal chandelier. Light fractured into a thousand prisms above an overwhelming display of food. Silver platters held roasted meats glazed to perfection. Porcelain dishes cradled buttered vegetables shining with herbs. Fresh bread rested in linen-lined baskets. Fruits were carved into delicate flowers. Pastries sat like edible jewels beside bowls of soup still sending up thin spirals of steam.
It was enough to feed twenty people.
Ira stopped walking.
She had never seen so much food gathered in one place—so lavish, so carefully presented, so impossibly expensive.
The maids guided her forward and seated her in the high-backed chair at the very head of the table.
Vernon's chair.
"Miss," one maid murmured softly, "please eat anything you like."
Ira said nothing.
She didn't reach for a single dish.
The maids hovered nearby, exchanging worried glances.
"Please, miss. Eat something," They kept pleading to her to eat.
Ira remained still, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered. She did not speak. She did not touch the food.
Eventually, Mr. Eldrin appeared.
He moved with his usual measured grace, dark-silver hair immaculate, suit perfectly tailored—though faint strain shadowed his eyes.
"Miss," he said quietly, "you should eat."
Ira looked up at him— she knew he was the butler of Vernon.
Her voice came out desperate.
"Where is… he?"
Mr. Eldrin stared at her for a second and then said. "Master is in the hospital. You don't need to worry. He… is used to getting hurt. He will be alright."
She pressed her lips together, something sharp lanced through Ira's chest. She didn't know why she felt that.
"Why is everyone treating me like this?" she asked, anxiety breaking through. "Dressing me. Feeding me. Even though I stabbed your master—"
Her voice trembled. Tears welled in her eyes.
"Are you all insane? What… what do you want from me? What does he want from me?"
Mr. Eldrin laughed.
The sound made heat rush to Ira's face, as if she had said something foolish.
"Master wants nothing from you," he replied calmly.
Ira stared at him, stunned.
The old man gestured toward the feast. "Please eat, miss. Starving yourself will not help anyone. Consider this an old guardian's advice. You seem like a good girl."
Her breath faltered. Seeing how nice he was to her.
Then he added gently, "When you are finished, the driver will take you home. So do try to finish your food fast. Do you not wish to return home?
Her gaze shifted to the empty chair beside her. Then to the food.
After a long, conflicted silence, she picked up a fork.
She ate mechanically—just enough to quiet the hollow ache in her stomach. Not enough to taste anything at all.
---
After she finished eating, the maids led Ira back to the main hall.
The vast space felt colder now—marble floors gleaming beneath towering ceilings. To the right, the grand piano rested on a slightly raised platform, its black lacquered surface reflecting the chandelier's pale glow. It stood silent, it had witnessed every pain Vernon felt .
At the center of the hall rose the magnificent staircase—wide and sweeping, curving upward in twin arcs before meeting at a landing above.
Vernon's blood had been wiped from the grand staircase, leaving the wrought iron banister—traced with gold detailing—and the polished marble steps.
And above the staircase was vernon's large portrait.
Overhead, the chandelier scattered pale golden light across stone and shadow, making everything feel distant. Untouchable. Unreal.
Mr. Eldrin appeared once more.
In his gloved hand was a sleek black credit card.
He extended it toward her.
"Use it," he said calmly. "As much as you need. You must leave the city. As soon as possible."
Ira stared at the card, disbelief written across her face.
"I don't want the monster's money."
Mr. Eldrin's expression did not change. "If you refuse it," he replied gently, "I "I won't let you go home, Miss." A faint pause. "Did you like it here?"
Her jaw tightened at that.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then, with trembling fingers, she took the card.
Not because she wanted it.
But because she needed to leave.
Her uncle and aunt must already be frantic with worry. She had to get out of this mansion—no matter the cost.
----
A black car waited outside— a luxurious sedan.
The driver opened the door without a word.
She slid inside. The mansion shrank in the rear window until it disappeared behind wrought-iron gates.
Meanwhile, in a private suite on the top floor of St. Augustine's Hospital, Vernon woke to the sting of antiseptic and the dull throb of sutures. His abdomen was tightly stitched and heavily bandaged after the operation, each shallow breath pulling at the fresh seam of healing flesh.
He sat up too fast. Pain flared white-hot across his abdomen. He ignored it.
A nurse rushed forward. "Sir, you mustn't—"
Other nurses gasped. A servant lunged forward.
"Phone," he rasped.
They hesitated. He fixed them with a stare that made them scramble.
The device was placed in his hand by his servent.
He ripped the saline line from his arm without looking—blood immediately beaded at the puncture. Nurses gasped.
He dialed.
Mr. Eldrin answered on the first ring.
"Is she okay?" Vernon's voice cracked—raw, desperate. "Is she home safe?"
A pause. Then, softly: "Yes, Master. She's perfectly fine. The driver just dropped her at her residence."
Vernon exhaled—a long, shuddering sound. His shoulders dropped. The phone slipped an inch in his blood-smeared fingers.
"Good," he whispered.
He closed his eyes.
The room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the faint drip of fluid from the discarded IV line.
For the first time in years, Vernon Krossvale looked almost peaceful.
To be continued...