CHAPTER SEVEN

Aila left her aunt's study with her mind unraveling, thread by thread.

Lies.

Everything Liz had told her felt like a carefully woven net, designed to keep her bound. But why? Why the secrecy? Why the omissions?

Her mother never spoke of this place. Never mentioned the weight that settled in Aila's bones the moment she arrived.

Her father left and never returned—was it to escape? To protect himself? To protect her?

The questions were heavy, pressing against her skull, and before she could untangle them, exhaustion dragged her under.

---

Seventeen hours later, Aila awoke to the sound of furniture scraping against polished floors and voices threading through the corridors.

She was used to this—losing time to sleep, the way it swallowed her whole when the weight of the world pressed too hard. People used to say she got it from her father. She used to laugh at the thought.

Now, she wasn't so sure.

Pulling herself from the sheets, she stumbled down the grand staircase, where the house was alive with movement. Gilded chandeliers bathed the foyer in warm, deceptive light. Workers hurried past, carrying floral arrangements and delicate glassware.

At the center of it all stood Aunt Liz, orchestrating the chaos like a queen preparing for court.

Aila blinked. "What's going on?"

Liz barely looked at her. "A charity gala, darling. For the orphanage. I do this every year."

A smooth lie. Too smooth.

Aila studied her aunt's expression—unbothered, effortless—but her hands? They were clenched a little too tight around the clipboard she held.

Something wasnt right.

~

Aila had never been to a party like this before.

The estate had been transformed into something out of an oil painting—lavish, golden, and timeless. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, casting fractured light across the gleaming marble floors. Towering floral arrangements filled the air with the scent of roses and jasmine, mingling with expensive perfume and aged wine.

Everywhere she looked, people moved like they belonged to this world. Effortless. Composed. Beautiful.

Aila felt like a poorly cut silhouette against all of it.

Her dress was pretty—a delicate shade of midnight blue that glowed under the soft golden light. But it was also too tight, the fabric cinching around her ribs, a constant reminder to hold her stomach in, to stand straighter, to take up less space.

She sucked in a breath and scanned the room.

She had been looking for Theo for the past hour, but instead, she had been found—by the women who orbited Aunt Liz like a swarm of jeweled birds.

"Oh, look at you, darling," one of them cooed, fingers brushing Aila's sleeve as if she were a doll on display. "You must be Elizabeth's niece."

Aila forced a polite smile. "Yes."

"I can see the resemblance," another one added, though her gaze flickered over Aila's dress with something unreadable—pity, maybe.

Fake kindness dripped from their voices. They weren't talking to her—they were inspecting her.

"How long will you be staying?"

"What do you do, dear?"

"Have you met anyone interesting yet?"

Aila wanted to claw her way out of the conversation. Instead, she plastered on a well-rehearsed smile and excused herself, mumbling something about needing fresh air.

She was suffocating. The dress, the scrutiny, the sheer weight of it all.

Then, she saw him.

Theo.

Standing near the far end of the room, a drink in hand, posture relaxed like he belonged here. He was talking to someone—a girl, tall, effortlessly beautiful, laughing at something he said.

Aila's stomach twisted.

Had he seen her? Had he ignored her?

She didn't care.

(That was a lie.)

She turned sharply and made her way toward the dimly lit hall, needing to get away, but as she walked, she heard footsteps behind her.

Theo.

He was leaving the party.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she followed him, her pulse hammering. And when he turned a corner, she moved faster, grabbing his wrist and shoving him into the nearest room.

The door slammed behind them.

And Aila realized—

Oh, God. It was a closet.

—

Theo's back hit the wooden shelf, a sharp breath escaping him.

"Aila, what the—?"

Aila braced herself against the door, trying to steady her breathing. The room was tiny, the dim light barely illuminating the sharp angles of Theo's face. His brows were furrowed, his lips parted in confusion.

"You've been avoiding me all night," she accused.

Theo exhaled through his nose. "Maybe because you're still hiding things from me."

Aila's grip on the doorknob tightened. "You're such a hypocrite, Theo."

He let out a sharp laugh. "I never said I wasn't."

Silence. The air between them shifted, charged with something she couldn't name.

Then—

"You should have told me about my sister," Theo said, voice low, unreadable.

Aila lifted her chin. "I didn't have to."

Something flickered across his face—frustration, anger… something deeper.

"No," he admitted, "you didn't."

But the unspoken words hung between them. You should have anyway.

Aila exhaled. "I'll tell you now."

And she did.

Everything.

Her aunt's cryptic warnings. The so-called family illness. The visions—the man, the creature, the pattern.

Theo listened, his expression darkening with every word.

When she finally stopped, the weight of their reality settled in.

They were alone. In a small, dark space.

Aila felt it all at once. His breath, the heat radiating off him, the fact that he was six inches away and very much real.

Oh, God. Was she ovulating?

Her brain was melting.

She needed to leave. Now.

But when she moved, her knee brushed against his, and Theo stiffened.

Aila's breath hitched.

The air between them shifted—thick, electric, charged with something unspoken and dangerous.

She swore he felt it too.

His gaze flickered downward, lips parting slightly as though he were about to say something. But he didn't.

Instead, he just… looked at her.

Not with suspicion. Not with frustration.

With something else.

Something heavy.

Aila's pulse thrummed against her throat.

If she moved, if she even breathed wrong, something would snap.

Her thoughts blurred, tangled between the mystery, the danger, the unbearable closeness of him.

The only thing she knew for certain was this:

She needed to get out of this closet.

Now.

Before she did something dangerously stupid.