Chapter Seven – “Room 317

Blackthorn was falling apart.

 Too many guests. Too many corridors. Not enough hands to pour the wine, sweep the floors, or polish the ridiculous number of antique candlesticks. By the second night of the ball, the servants were dropping like flies—some too exhausted to move, others pulled aside for "more important tasks," and a few who simply vanished down a hallway and never returned.

Eva had learned early that asking questions only earned her more work.

 So when a disheveled steward—face flushed, hair clinging to his forehead—shoved a folded slip of parchment into her hand and snapped, "Room 317. Fresh linens. Quick clean. Go," she didn't argue.

She just went.

 The west wing was quieter than the rest of the manor, with carpeted halls that muffled footsteps and gold sconces that burned low with a flickering, steady flame. It was the kind of silence that made you feel like you were trespassing, even if you had orders. Even if you had a reason.

 Room 317 was tucked near the end of the hall; its door marked with nothing but an elegant brass number. No guards. No servants outside. Just quiet. Eva hesitated, just for a moment, then pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The room was warm.

 Not in a cozy, homey way—but in a claimed way. It breathed wealth and danger without trying too hard. The floors were polished stone, softened by a fur rug the color of smoke. Dark wooden furniture gleamed in the candlelight—sturdy, precise, almost military in how intentionally it had been placed. A high-backed chair angled toward the fireplace. A writing desk scattered with papers, though nothing personal or messy. The bed was massive and crisply made, with silk sheets folded back just so.

 It wasn't overly decorated, but it wasn't cold either. Just... Perfect. Intimidatingly tidy. Like its owner had never once misplaced a button in his life.

Eva didn't linger.

 She moved quietly, replacing the linens, straightening a silver letter opener on the desk, adjusting a crooked curtain tie like her existence didn't depend on blending into the wallpaper. It was just another room. Another task. Her thoughts barely registered—only faint background noise as she kept her hands busy and her mouth shut.

She didn't think to ask whose room it was. Not until she opened the door to leave—and froze.

"Interesting."

 Lady Valeria stood just outside, backlit by the hallway's golden sconces, her figure perfectly poised. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes sparkled with something sharp and cruel.

Amusement. The bad kind.

Eva straightened instinctively, stepping out into the corridor with the dumb reflex of a deer walking toward a gun.

"I wasn't—" she started, words fumbling into the air.

Lady Valeria didn't let her finish.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" she said, tilting her head, voice low and honeyed. "First the gardens. Now… this."

Eva blinked, completely thrown. "I was just cleaning. One of the stewards gave me the key—he said the room needed—"

"Oh, I'm sure he did," Lady Valeria murmured, glancing past Eva into the room like she was assessing damage. Or counting sins. "Tell me, little maid—did he also forget to mention whose room this is?"

 Eva's stomach turned. She looked over her shoulder at the door. Back at Lady Valeria. "It's just a guest room, isn't it?"

Lady Valeria's smile grew.

"No. It isn't." Her voice dipped, dark and delighted. "This is Lord Rafe's chamber."

The silence stretched.

 Eva's breath caught somewhere in her chest. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and then finally managed, "I didn't know. I swear I—"

"Of course you didn't," Lady Valeria said smoothly, her eyes narrowing. "Because if you had known, you'd be even dumber than I thought."

 The venom behind the words was subtle, like a blade slid beneath the ribs. Lady Valeria stepped closer now, her gaze gleaming with dangerous glee.

"No maid is ever assigned to this room. Not without direct approval. But you—what luck. You just wandered in. Touched his sheets. Breathed his air."

Eva couldn't find her voice.

"You really ought to be more careful," Lady Valeria added, her tone light and terrible. 

"Lord Rafe doesn't like being touched without invitation. And I don't like sharing."

She didn't wait for a response.

. With one last, glacial smile, she turned and walked away—heels clicking softly on the marble, her silk skirts whispering behind her like gossip.

 Eva stayed frozen in the doorway. The warmth of the room at her back. The cold of Lady Valeria's parting words settling into her bones.

Lord Rafe's room.

She hadn't known.