Chapter 3: The West Wing

The mansion was a maze of cold marble, glass walls, and secrets too proud to whisper. But none were more shrouded than the west wing.

Ares had told her—no, warned her—not to go there.

"Elara, that side of the house is off-limits," he had said, the night she moved in. His voice had been silk wrapped around steel. "No questions. No visits. No curiosity."

But curiosity wasn't something she could silence. Not when her own memories were gone. Not when every corner of this house seemed to echo with something she should remember.

It had been three days since their wedding.

Three days of cold glances, polite lies, and silence thick enough to choke on.

He didn't touch her.

He didn't speak much either.

He'd leave early, return late, and when he looked at her—it wasn't with love. It was with study. As if she were some fragile experiment. Something broken. Something… missing.

And she was.

Elara couldn't remember her past, but the pain of forgetting had settled into her bones. She felt it in the way she flinched when doors slammed. In the way she sometimes woke up gasping, shaking, as if she were running from someone in her dreams.

And the dreams… they were starting to feel too real.

Last night, she had seen blood. A gun. A scream.

Ares's voice—angry, hoarse, desperate.

"Don't touch her!"

She had jolted awake. Cold sweat, trembling fingers, heart racing.

And this morning, he had stared at her a second too long when he saw the dark circles under her eyes. But he hadn't asked.

Just left.

As usual.

Now, the sun was beginning to fade behind the hills, casting orange light across the mansion's glass corridors. The staff had quietly disappeared. Dinner had been left on a tray near her room.

And Elara stood before the west wing.

The hallway was colder here. Quieter.

She reached for the ornate bronze doorknob and hesitated.

Somewhere in her chest, her heart thudded a warning.

But she needed to know.

The door creaked open.

A gust of cold air greeted her like a breath from the past. Dust floated lazily in the fading light as she stepped into the forbidden corridor.

Everything was older here.

Not the modern luxury of the rest of the house. No glass, no marble—just dark wood, heavy velvet drapes, and paintings that watched her with knowing eyes.

One painting stopped her in her tracks.

A woman.

Dressed in red. Her face was turned slightly away, but the resemblance was undeniable.

It was her.

Or someone who looked exactly like her.

Elara's breath caught in her throat.

Who was she?

And why was this version of herself hanging in a wing she wasn't supposed to see?

She stepped closer.

A brass plaque beneath the frame read: Sofia A. Knight — 1994 to 2021.

The dates didn't make sense.

2021? That was four years ago.

Elara reached out to touch the plaque, her fingertips brushing the cold metal—

Crash!

She spun around.

The noise had come from the end of the hallway.

A figure moved in the shadows.

"Hello?" her voice was small. "Is someone there?"

Silence.

Then… a whisper. Not spoken aloud, but inside her head.

"You need to leave, Elara."

She stumbled back.

"No. No, no, no," she murmured. "I'm imagining things. It's just stress. I'm tired."

She turned to leave—

And found herself face to face with Ares.

He stood in the doorway, tall and sharp in a black suit, his stormy eyes burning.

"I told you never to come here," he said, voice low, dangerous.

Elara's lips parted, guilt and fear swelling in her chest. "I saw the portrait… She looks like me. Who was she?"

His jaw tightened. "This isn't a conversation we're having tonight."

"I deserve to know."

"You don't even know who you are."

That stung.

She took a step back, breath caught in her throat. "Maybe if you told me the truth, I would."

Ares closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand catching her wrist—not hard, but firm.

"I'm protecting you, Elara."

"From what? My memories?"

His gaze held hers for a long, tense moment.

"From everything," he said finally.

Then, just like that, he released her.

"Go back to your room," he ordered. "Do not come here again."

And without waiting for her to speak, he turned and walked away, the shadows swallowing him whole.

Elara stared after him.

Torn.

Shaken.

But most of all, haunted.

Because as she stood there, heart pounding in the silent hallway, she realized something chilling.

The woman in the painting hadn't just looked like her.

She had worn the same ring.

The same wedding ring.

And suddenly, it didn't feel like Elara was living a new life.

It felt like she was repeating someone else's.

Someone who might not have survived it.