Chapter 62 – A Ghost's Hand

Seraphina sat at her vanity, the letter from Everhart estate lying unopened before her. Her fingers hovered over the seal, the familiar crest embossed in red wax—a crest that should have died with her father. And yet, here it was, taunting her with its impossible presence.

Her father was dead!

By the King's order he had been executed after his fall from grace.

Why was she receiving this letter now?

So why did this letter exist?

Behind her, Adrian was dressing, the rustle of linen and the metallic clink of a belt buckle breaking the silence. She felt his gaze settle on her reflection in the mirror, assessing, waiting.

"You still haven't opened it," he remarked.

Seraphina lifted her chin, keeping her expression smooth. "I do not rush to entertain ghosts."

Adrian crossed the room with unhurried steps, stopping just behind her. His presence was a weight, his heat pressing through the thin silk of her robe. He didn't touch her, but the awareness of him curled around her like smoke.

"If it's a ghost, then what are you afraid of?" His voice was calm, probing.

Seraphina exhaled, then slipped a nail beneath the wax seal, breaking it with a quiet snap. The parchment inside was aged, its edges slightly frayed. She unfolded it, scanning the contents with slow precision.

Her pulse stuttered.

The handwriting was her father's.

She would recognize the precise, elegant script anywhere—the same hand that had signed away her future, the same one that had sealed her fate in ink.

Seraphina,

If you are reading this, then something has gone terribly wrong.

You must listen carefully. There are forces at play beyond what you understand.

Trust no one.

Not even the Duke.

Burn this letter after reading. Do not seek me.

But know that I did what I must—to protect you.

Her breath caught, fingers tightening on the parchment. The words bled into one another, her mind struggling to reconcile their meaning.

Not even the Duke.

Adrian.

Her pulse thrummed, a warning beat drumming against her ribs. She had spent months peeling back the layers of this man, deciphering his motives, his hunger for revenge, the ghosts of his own past. And yet, had she ever truly known him?

Adrian shifted slightly, and she became acutely aware of his nearness, of the way his storm-gray eyes flicked from the letter to her face.

"What does it say?" he asked.

Seraphina hesitated. The letter's command echoed in her mind. Trust no one. Burn this letter.

She folded the parchment with steady hands. "Nothing of consequence."

His gaze sharpened. "You lie."

She turned in her seat, tilting her head as she regarded him. "Are you so accustomed to falsehoods that you assume them in everyone?"

A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement, perhaps. Or irritation. "You're deflecting."

"And you're prying."

Adrian's smirk was slow, dangerous. "What did your father write that has you looking as though you've seen a ghost?"

Seraphina forced a soft breath, shifting to stand. The silk of her robe brushed against his arm as she stepped past him, moving toward the fireplace.

"You assume too much," she murmured.

Adrian caught her wrist before she could reach the flames. "And you assume I will not find out."

Their eyes met—hers steady, his unreadable.

The letter's words throbbed in her mind: Not even the Duke.

Seraphina curled her fingers, crushing the parchment in her palm. She was not a woman prone to superstition, nor to blind trust. But neither was she a fool.

"Let it be, Adrian."

For a long moment, he did not move. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he released her.

"Very well, wife," he murmured. "For now."

She turned from him, letting the paper slip into the fire, watching as the flames licked at its edges, devouring ink and secrets alike.

But the words had already branded themselves into her mind.

Something was wrong.

And the past was not as dead as she had believed.