No Rats in the Mansion.

The city was gentle that night — low-lit streets dusted with amber, cool air humming with the quiet rhythm of traffic and distant chatter. Inside the softly glowing café tucked near campus, Emma sat cross-legged on a velvet booth, her arm loosely draped around Lily's shoulder, giggling with no regard for the clock.

There was a kind of freedom in the way her cheeks flushed with wine, her laugh rising over the soft music. Lily stirred her cocktail with the little straw, grinning as Emma mimicked the accent of their ethics professor and declared dramatically, "Moral integrity is for people who don't live in haunted mansions."

Lily doubled over. "You're awful."

"I'm amazing," Emma said, raising her glass. "And very possibly married to the ghost of a Victorian general."

They both cackled.

By the time they stepped outside, the air was brisk and the buzz of laughter hadn't worn off. But Lily, ever the responsible one, noticed Emma's wobble and the way her words started tangling.

"Alright," Lily said gently, hailing a cab. "Time to get you back to your haunted estate."

"But I don't wanna gooo," Emma drawled. "Let's go dancing instead. Or rob a museum."

Lily laughed but guided her into the cab. "You'll thank me later. Text me when you get in, okay?"

Emma saluted sloppily. "Aye, aye, Captain Responsible."

Lily handed the driver the Wolfe estate's address and stepped back from the car, smiling with a touch of concern. She watched until the taillights faded.

She didn't know this would be the last time she'd see Emma like this — bright and loose, wrapped in laughter and midnight air.

At the Wolfe estate, the silence stretched like velvet over the polished wood and soft carpets. Maids moved quietly, the air almost reverent, until the front door banged open with a creak and a thud.

"Miss Emma's home!" someone called from the foyer.

The staff exchanged glances.

Emma wobbled inside, humming, her bag dangling from one shoulder, her shoes clutched in her hand like souvenirs from a wild adventure.

She smiled at the maid who approached her. "Did you know... this house has seventeen chandeliers?"

The maid blinked. "Um... yes, ma'am."

Emma beamed. "Of course you do. You live in it."

And then she promptly tripped over the edge of the rug.

By the time Alexander returned home, the night had deepened into stillness. The air was heavier inside the mansion, the kind of quiet that hinted something had happened.

He stepped out of the car, loosening his tie as he walked up the stairs. His coat was slung over one arm, fatigue weighing down his usually sharp frame. The day had dragged — endless meetings, a delayed flight, another series of boardroom arguments that had left him feeling frayed.

A maid greeted him at the entrance. "Good evening, sir."

He nodded absently and handed off his coat.

The maid hesitated. "Miss Emma returned... some time ago. She appeared... quite intoxicated."

Alexander paused in the hallway.

He exhaled once. "I see."

There was no anger in his voice, only a resigned sigh. He didn't ask for more. He didn't want to know. He didn't have the energy for another emotional maze.

He headed toward his room, intent on sleep, maybe a drink.

But as he passed his study, the sound stopped him cold.

A scream.

High-pitched. Unmistakably Emma.

He stilled, one hand on the doorframe.

Then came the thud of something soft hitting furniture, followed by Elijah's amused voice: "Emma, seriously, there are no rats in this mansion. I swear."

"There is!" Emma's voice was frantic. "I saw it! It looked at me! It had eyes!"

"You have eyes," Elijah replied dryly. "Should I scream too?"

Alexander muttered something under his breath and turned on his heel, striding down the hallway.

He entered the drawing room just as Emma leapt onto the couch, clutching a decorative pillow like it was a weapon.

She was barefoot, hair tousled, her blue dress slightly askew as she stood on the cushions like a panicked heroine in a silent film. Her face lit up when she saw Alexander.

"There it is!" she cried, pointing at the floor behind the piano. "The beast!"

Elijah looked over his shoulder and smirked. "Your wife is pretty drunk."

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I tried to help," Elijah said, rising from the armchair with exaggerated grace. "But you know, I feel this is a... husband kind of emergency."

"Elijah—" Alexander started.

But Elijah was already backing away. "Good luck."

Eleanor, who had been lingering near the doorway, took one look at Alexander and vanished like a ghost with a mission.

Which left Alexander standing alone, expression blank, facing his drunken, rat-terrified wife.

He inhaled slowly. "Emma."

"You're barefoot."

"I had a fight with my heels. They lost."

"Get down."

"I can't. The rat will bite my ankles and give me plague."

He ran a hand through his hair and approached her slowly. "I swear, if you don't get down, I will drag you off that couch and lock you in the wine cellar."

Emma gasped. "You do have a dungeon!"

Alexander walked forward slowly, removing his watch. He didn't speak right away — just stood before her, watching her dramatic heaves of breath and the unsteady glint in her eye.

"Emma," he said again, quieter this time, firm.

She turned toward him, and her balance wobbled.

"Alexander!" she exclaimed with exaggerated relief. "Thank God! You have to believe me. There was a rat. It looked at me like it knew my deepest sins."

"I'm sure it did," he replied flatly. "Come. You need to go upstairs."

Emma pouted, flopping down on the couch with a melodramatic groan. "But I don't want to. You're mean."

Alexander rubbed his temples. "Get up."

"No."

"Emma."

"I said nooo." She lay down and kicked her legs lightly. "This couch is nice. This couch understands me."

Alexander's jaw tensed. He gave her one more second.

Then he moved.

Without warning, he reached down and scooped her into his arms, bridal-style.

"Hey!" she squealed, flailing. "Put me down! I'll sue you for kidnapping!"

"You're my wife," he said dryly. "That would make me... exceptionally bad at it."

"I have rights!"

"And I have patience. Barely."

She wriggled the whole way up the stairs, smacking his chest with a loose hand and threatening all kinds of nonsense about calling police and reporting "husband abuse."

By the time he reached her room, Alexander's restraint was visibly thinning. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and deposited her — not too gently — onto the soft mattress.

Emma bounced slightly with an "oof."

He turned to go.

"Don't turn your back on me!" she shouted suddenly, sitting up. "I'm a warrior!"

Alexander turned slowly. "You're drunk."

"Warriors get drunk."

He sighed and started to leave again, but something in her tone changed.

"I mean it," she muttered, voice cracking. "Don't—don't just walk away."

His hand stilled on the doorknob.

When he turned around, she was crying.

Not the loud, performative kind — but a silent stream of tears running down flushed cheeks, her shoulders trembling with the force she was trying to hide.

He frowned.

She looked at him helplessly, blinking through tears. "I didn't mean to mess up. I was just having fun. And then Lily... I don't know why she left. I don't know why I feel so alone in that huge house…"

Alexander took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. That's when he noticed it — a small smear of red along her palm.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked sharply.