The House with Locked Doors

Rosaline's POV

Mornings at the penthouse had fallen into a strange rhythm.

Too quiet. Too careful.

I woke before the alarm, my body still stiff from the events of the night before—the memory of Kathy's attack, the crack of bones, and the weight of Adam's gaze as I walked away from them both. It lingered like static beneath my skin.

The silk sheets pooled at my waist as I sat up, rubbing a hand over my face. A dull ache pulsed in my temples, not pain exactly, but a heaviness. Like something ancient stirring.

I showered quickly, dressed in a forest-green blouse tucked into black slacks, and twisted my hair into a loose knot. No lipstick today. Just eyeliner and a quiet wariness I wore like perfume.

Adam hadn't surfaced this morning. Not that I expected him to. He had a tendency to vanish when things got too… complicated.

The drive to work was uneventful, but I felt eyes on me the moment I stepped into the glass building.

Not Sam. She was gone.

Not Kathy—hopefully exiled, or bound and buried.

No, this was something else.

Something is watching.

⸻

The office buzzed with the usual corporate energy of keystrokes, low murmurs, and the occasional forced laughter over filtered coffee. But beneath it, I sensed tension. Adam's presence had changed the building, even if people couldn't name it. Some primal part of them knew.

I had barely sat down when Emma poked her head into my cabin. "Morning, Rose. You look… unkillable today."

I raised a brow. "That's oddly specific."

She shrugged. "We've all been tiptoeing since yesterday. Word is, you put someone in a neck brace."

I sighed. "Only in self-defense."

Emma grinned. "Still hot. See you at lunch."

As she disappeared, I returned to my screen, yet my fingers hovered above the keyboard, unmoving. I couldn't concentrate. My senses were too alert, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Something was coming.

⸻

At exactly eleven thirty, a soft thump broke my trance.

A black envelope now lay on my desk. I hadn't heard anyone enter. Hadn't seen a shadow move. But it was there, matte black with a seal I recognized instantly.

A crimson crescent coiled around a vertical blade. The same sigil I'd glimpsed in Adam's restricted archive. The same one inked faintly on the back of one of the prophecy scrolls I wasn't supposed to find.

I stared at it, the paper absorbing the light. Cold to the touch.

Curiosity warred with caution. But curiosity won.

Inside was a card, simple and precise:

You are requested to attend the Founders' Circle Gala.

Formal attire. Midnight.

Location will be disclosed an hour prior.

There was no signature. No RSVP.

Just a summons dressed as an invitation.

I looked up instinctively. Across the floor, behind the glass walls of his office, Adam sat at his desk—head lowered, fingers steepled, gaze unreadable.

But I knew he was watching.

He always did.

That evening, Amanda helped me with preparations. I chose a black silk gown that dipped low in the back, threaded with obsidian beads that caught the light like constellations. My hair, curled and pinned, framed my face in soft waves. I wore no jewelry—only the sole pendant beneath my skin, pulsing faintly.

As I stared at myself in the mirror, a question whispered through my thoughts.

Why did he want me there?

And why now?

⸻

At 11:00 p.m., I received a single message.

Follow the raven.

Moments later, a sleek, matte-black vehicle pulled up outside the penthouse. Its driver didn't speak. A mechanical raven ornament glowed red above the dashboard, its head turning at intervals as if alive.

I said nothing.

The car took me through winding roads, past the city's outskirts, until tall iron gates loomed into view. The estate beyond was shadowed in silver moonlight—ancient, Gothic, and veined with secrets. This was no hotel. It was a manor pulled from Devana's oldest dreams.

Or nightmares.

Inside, the air shimmered with power.

Guests—hundreds of them—moved like predators in elegant suits and hauntingly perfect gowns. Not all were vampires. I could feel it. There were warlocks, spirits bound in flesh, and even a werewolf in ceremonial chains. But they all bowed when Adam entered.

He was already dressed in midnight velvet, no tie, just a thin chain of silver across his collarbone. His eyes burned when they found mine.

"Didn't think you'd come," he murmured, stopping inches from me.

"You summoned me. I only obey orders… occasionally."

That smirk. Arrogant, knowing, dangerous.

"I wanted you to see," he said.

"See what?"

He offered his arm.

"The world you've been kept from."

The ballroom was a cathedral of shadows and whispers.

Crystal chandeliers hung like inverted thrones above us, each pulsing with flame—not ordinary light, but fire that moved like it had a mind of its own. It flickered blue, then gold, then the color of old blood. Below them, mirrors framed in obsidian lined the walls, but none showed my reflection as I truly was. Every glance revealed a different version of me—some beautiful, others monstrous.

A fountain stood at the center. Ruby liquid cascaded in graceful arcs, catching the firelight. I knew without question: it wasn't wine. The scent—metallic, sweet, and too thick—confirmed it.

Adam stood beside me, untouched by the opulence, his expression unreadable.

"This," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "is the Court Below."

"The vampire elite?" I asked, not bothering to hide the disgust threading my voice.

He didn't look at me. "The real rulers of this world. Politicians answer to them. Kings fear them. Even the angels avoid them."

One by one, they began to notice us. Not me—him.

Whispers rippled like silk torn in slow motion. They drifted closer in pairs and trios—dressed in velvet and bone, their eyes gleaming with centuries of hunger.

"Lord Black," one of them drawled, lifting a glass. "You've brought… company."

They toasted him with smiles sharp enough to slice. Others offered murmured greetings laced with veiled insults, testing his composure. But Adam remained statuesque, cool, and untouchable.

I stood beside him, silent but seething. I didn't belong here. Not among monsters wrapped in couture.

And yet, I couldn't look away.

The power in this room… it was intoxicating.

Until the air shifted.

Like winter slithering into summer.

A voice cut through the room like the crack of a blade on stone.

"So this is the girl."

The crowd parted with unnatural obedience.

A figure emerged tall, ethereal, wrong.

His skin shimmered like frost kissed by moonlight, his hair silver and impossibly still, like even the air dared not disturb him. His suit was black, but his aura glowed with something older than time.

My body reacted before my mind did.

My pendant flared under my skin.

"Lord Veyron," Adam said tightly. His jaw ticked once. "What a surprise."

Veyron's eyes never left mine. Cold. Piercing.

Too knowing.

"She doesn't belong here," he said softly, his voice a melody laced with venom. "Not yet."

I stepped forward. "And yet… I'm here."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Cruel. Curious. "You smell of fire and ruin. Of star-blood and betrayal. I know what you are."

Adam shifted, placing himself subtly in front of me. "Careful, Veyron."

But Veyron tilted his head, amused. He was hunting—no, dissecting—with words. "Tell me, girl. Do you truly believe you are an heir?"

I didn't answer. My hands were clenched at my sides.

He leaned in slightly, his tone almost pitying.

"You poor thing. Has no one told you?"

Adam moved forward an inch.

"That the heavens marked you not as heir…"

"But as a sacrifice."

The words struck like thunder beneath my ribs.

The mirrors around us seemed to dim. My vision tunneled.

"What did you just say?"

Veyron's eyes glimmered, triumphant. "Ask your pendant. Or better yet… ask the Saint. If you survive finding him."

And with that, he turned and dissolved into the crowd like smoke returning to the sky—leaving behind only silence and the sound of my breathing, ragged and shallow.

Adam's hand brushed mine.

I yanked it away.

Later, I stood alone at the edge of the balcony, the city unfurling below me like a sea of fallen stars. The lights blinked like distant memories—distant lives—none of which belonged to me. The wind tugged at my hair, cold and insistent, but I barely felt it. Numbness had set in, deeper than flesh.

One word pulsed in my mind, over and over again.

Sacrifice.

Not here. Not a survivor.

Not chosen. Not cursed.

Sacrifice.

Footsteps sounded softly behind me. I didn't need to turn.

Adam joined me in silence, his presence a quiet storm at my back.

"You shouldn't have invited me," I said, my voice low but steady, anchored by the weight of everything I didn't yet understand.

"I had to," he replied. "You need to know what we're up against."

I turned to look at him, my gaze sharp. "Lord Veyron… What did he mean back there?"

Adam's jaw clenched. For a long moment, he didn't answer. The silence between us was thick—almost unbearable. Then, finally, he spoke, and his voice carried something raw, something broken.

"You were never meant to live, Rosaline," he said. "Not in the way you think."

I stared at him, not breathing.

"You were the lock," he continued, eyes on the dark horizon. "The ward. The final gate between this world and the chaos beyond it."

My heart stilled, a hollow echo thudding inside my chest.

"The prophecy," I whispered, as fragments of old Devana lore flooded my mind—pieces I had never truly believed until now.

Adam nodded once, slowly.

"And now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "someone out there is trying to turn the key."