Chapter 6: A Knife Called Regret

Dawn stretched its golden fingers across the sky bathing the quiet village in a soft amber glow. The distant crowing of roosters merged with the rhythmic clatter of wooden carts rolling over uneven dirt roads. Goats bleated lazily as they wandered past their hooves kicking up dust while an old man urged his oxen forward the creak of the wooden yoke echoing in the crisp morning air. The scent of damp earth and fresh bread wafted from nearby houses mingling with the faint traces of smoke curling from chimneys.

Amidst this tranquil awakening Zara lingered in the space between the fading echoes of a nightmare and the harsh grip of reality. When she opened her eyes she found herself sprawled on the cold unyielding floor her limbs heavy as if weighed down by invisible chains. A dull ache pulsed through her skull, and as she moved to sit up something slipped from her lap.

A book.

It tumbled onto the wooden floor with a soft thud and the moment her gaze fell upon it a sharp searing pain surged through her eyes. She gasped her breath hitching in her throat as she clutched her temples the sensation unbearable almost unnatural.

Instinctively she knelt before the book her trembling fingers reaching for it as if retrieving something sacred. Her grip tightened around the worn leather cover the texture rough yet familiar beneath her fingertips. Holding it close she pressed it against her chest as though drawing strength from its presence.

With careful steps she moved toward the safe tucked into the corner of the room. She turned the dial her fingers moving with practiced ease though her heart pounded in her chest. The moment the lock clicked open she placed the book inside shutting it away before closing the heavy door with a finality that echoed in the silence.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

She turned on her heel and made her way to the bathroom. The air inside was damp tinged with the scent of rust and old soap. Standing before the sink she cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed cold water onto her face. The icy shock sent shivers through her body, but it failed to wash away the turmoil coiling within her.

Then as she straightened her gaze lifted to the mirror.

She froze.

Her reflection stared back at her familiar yet loathsome. The sharp cheekbones the curve of her jaw the haunting green eyes features she had once admired. But now all she saw was the face of a men who had brought suffering. The same face that had haunted Elizabeth. The same face that had watched her mother wither under cruelty.

Hatred twisted inside her raw and unrelenting.

She lifted her trembling hand brushing her fingertips against her cheek as if trying to peel away the resemblance. But it was inescapable a permanent scar carved into her very existence.

The past clawed its way into her mind dragging her back into memories she wished she could forget.

And then…

An Entry from Hannah's Diary

The O'Sullivan mansion has never been just a house. It has never been a home not to those like me. It stands like an unshaken fortress its towering walls a monument to power and cruelty. Even as a child I knew the truth this place does not protect it possesses. It holds its people like prisoners wrapped in a suffocating grip of loyalty duty and fear.

I was born inside these walls. I grew up in their shadows learning to navigate the mansion's silent corridors like a ghost. My father served the O'Sullivans as did his father before him. He was the driver for Ronan's father a man who ruled this house with an iron hand but carried the weight of years upon his shoulders. I suppose that was why the true power had shifted to Ronan long before his father could officially pass it down.

Ronan O'Sullivan. His name was never spoken casually in the mansion. It was murmured in hushed voices laced with both reverence and terror. He was ruthless a man whose very presence could still a room. The kind of man who could destroy a life with nothing more than a glance. And my mother she knew. She knew better than anyone what it meant to live in his world.

"Never let him see you Hannah. Never."

She told me this often, pressing the warning into me as if repetition could somehow shield me from the inevitable. I never truly understood what she feared only that it was enough to make her hands tremble when she spoke. My mother was strong stronger than I ever knew at the time yet when she spoke of Ronan there was something in her eyes that unsettled me. Something close to helplessness.

I spent my days in the servant quarters away from the main halls where men like Ronan walked. Sometimes I worked with my mother in the kitchen helping to prepare meals that would be carried away to rooms I had never stepped foot in. I was content with that small existence because I knew no other life was possible.

My father was different. He was a man of unshakable loyalty a man who had dedicated himself to the O'Sullivans without question. Perhaps that was why he was so cold to me. Not cruel never cruel but distant. He never allowed himself to be soft.

I used to wonder if he loved me at all. But love in this house was weakness. And weakness was not something he could afford.

So he was harsh distant treating me with the same rigid expectations he had for himself. He never once questioned why we lived as we did. He never spoke of leaving. Because there was no leaving. No one who served the O'Sullivans ever walked away. The only escape was through death.

I used to ask my mother why she married him why she chose this life. And sometimes, in the quiet of the night when she thought I was asleep I heard her cry.

Because she had loved him once.

She had loved a man who over the years, had become something else something unrecognizable. She had married him for love and in return she had been given a life inside these walls inside this prison.

I think in some ways she grieved the man he used to be.

And then one day everything changed.

I should have listened to my mother's warnings. I should have stayed in the kitchen in the shadows unseen as I always had been. But fate is not kind and some things cannot be avoided.

Ronan saw me.

I remember it with such clarity that it sickens me. The smell of warm bread in the air the rhythmic sounds of my mother kneading dough. I was dusted with flour lost in the simple pleasure of the moment.

And then the kitchen grew silent.

I turned and there he was.

Ronan O'Sullivan did not belong in the kitchen. He did not belong among the servants. But he stood there nonetheless his presence suffocating his gaze locking onto me as if he had found something he hadn't known he was looking for.

I felt the weight of my mother's fear before I even understood why.

For a moment nothing happened. A heartbeat of silence.

Then he smiled.

And I knew with the kind of certainty that sends ice through your veins that my life as I had known it was over.

I do not have the strength to write what came next.

There are some things that ink cannot contain memories that refuse to be caged by mere words. The walls of this mansion swallowed my screams just as they had done to countless others before me. This place this house it is built on silence. And I too was swallowed by it.

By morning nothing had changed.

Except that everything had.

I rose as I always did dressed as I always did moved as I always did. My mother's eyes were hollow her lips pressed into a thin line. But she did not speak of it. She did not ask if I was alright. Because we both knew the answer.

What was there to say?

Ronan O'Sullivan had done what men like him always do.

And men like him never face consequences.

My father never knew. My mother never told him. And I? I learned what it truly meant to be powerless.

I thought for a time that perhaps my mother would act. That she would break her silence do something, anything. But she did not. Because there was nothing she could do.

Ronan was untouchable. And she knew that even the thought of defying him would bring death upon us both.

So she did what she had always done. She endured.

And so did I.

But something inside me changed that night. A part of me some small fragile part died.

And in its place something else was born.

Something cold.

Something that one day will no longer be afraid.

Because power in this house is the only thing that matters.

And I am done being powerless.