Cassandra did not sleep.
It wasn't just the house—though the persistent creaks, moans, and occasional whisper of wind tapping at her windows certainly didn't help. It wasn't the storm either, which had grown into something biblical. No, it was something else entirely.
Julian.
Specifically, the way his voice had softened before he said goodnight. The warmth of his smile, the way he hadn't mocked her when she flinched at a sound. He was supposed to be a business transaction. A tolerable inconvenience.
Instead, he was a complication with great bone structure and annoyingly good timing.
At 6:13 a.m., unable to take the silence any longer, she pulled on a sweater and boots and ventured out of her room.
The hallways were darker than the night before. No more flickering sconces. Just dull gray light leaking in through frosted windows.
The snow outside had climbed halfway up the glass.
She found Julian in the kitchen.
Barefoot, disheveled, and wearing pajama pants and a Henley that fit him far too well, he looked less like a mogul-in-training and more like someone who accidentally starred in a coffee commercial.
"I swear to God," she said, "if you know how to make lattes, I'm going to hate you even more."
He looked up, startled, holding a saucepan. "Just warming milk. But thanks for the vote of confidence."
She squinted. "You can cook?"
"Surprisingly well. My rebellion phase included culinary school in Florence. My mother thought it was a cry for help."
"And was it?"
He grinned. "I was twenty and wanted to date my instructor. So yes."
She leaned on the counter, arms folded. "Why are you up?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Ghosts?"
He hesitated. "Footsteps. Again. Around four."
She stilled. "You're sure?"
"I got up. Checked. The attic door was unlocked."
Her blood chilled. "I thought you said it stayed bolted."
"It does. Or should."
He poured the hot milk into a mug and slid it across the counter to her. "No sugar, extra cinnamon. Figured you for a purist."
She blinked at him. "You guessed my cocoa preferences?"
He smirked. "I'm observant. And competitive. I plan to be the better fake spouse."
She sipped it. It was perfect. Unfortunately.
"So," she said after a moment, "what's your theory?"
Julian leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "The house is old. No staff but Elise. My father has a penchant for theatrics—maybe this is his idea of a test. Force us together, trap us with weather, and see if we come out married or homicidal."
"You think this is... orchestrated?"
"I think my father likes drama. And if there's one thing Ashfords and Beaumonts are good at, it's drama."
She nodded. "Then we play along. Smile for the cameras we can't find. Pretend to fall in love."
Julian met her gaze. "Pretend?"
The air between them shifted—warmer now, charged.
Cassandra cleared her throat and backed away slightly. "We need to explore the attic."
Julian raised a brow. "Changing the subject?"
"Very quickly."
The attic stairs were narrow, wooden, and absolutely the backdrop for a haunted doll movie.
Julian led the way, flashlight in hand. "You first," Cassandra said.
"Because you want me to die first?"
"Exactly."
The door creaked open on stiff hinges.
The attic was wide, dust-choked, filled with trunks and antiques draped in cloth. The floorboards groaned under their feet.
"Smells like mothballs and regrets," Cassandra muttered.
They split up, sweeping the space. Julian knelt beside a chest. "Locked," he said.
Cassandra brushed dust from a stack of boxes labeled Ashford Family Archives. "This looks promising."
She pulled one open.
Inside were photographs—sepia-toned, black-and-white, and polaroids. One in particular caught her eye: a young couple in front of the estate's main fireplace. The woman looked like Elise.
Only younger.
Far younger.
She frowned. "Julian? Come look."
He took the photo, staring at it. "That's Elise. No doubt. But this... is from decades ago."
"And she looks exactly the same."
Julian ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. That's... odd."
They kept digging.
Another box held old letters. Handwritten, ink faded. Cassandra opened one.
> Darling George,
She still walks the halls at night. I hear her weep sometimes. Please—get rid of that portrait. It isn't just a painting anymore. It watches me. I know she's angry.
—E.
She shivered. "Julian. Who's George?"
He was reading over her shoulder now. "My grandfather. The 'E' must be his wife... Eleanor. She died here."
Cassandra turned. "You're telling me this place is literally haunted by your grandmother?"
"I never knew her. My father barely speaks of her."
They stared at each other, the pieces falling quietly, uncomfortably into place.
Portrait. Watching. Weeping.
Cassandra backed toward the stairs. "We need to leave."
Julian caught her hand. "And go where? The storm hasn't stopped. No signal. No roads."
She looked down at their joined hands.
She didn't pull away.
"Then we need to figure out what she wants," Cassandra whispered. "Because she's still here."
Later that evening, they found the portrait.
It hung in the drawing room. Towering. Dark. The paint cracked and heavy with age. A woman in gray, eyes sharp, mouth set in a disapproving line.
It was Elise.
Or someone who looked exactly like her.
Cassandra stared. "That's not just a coincidence."
Julian didn't speak.
The firelight flickered across the canvas, and for a moment—just one heart-thudding second—Cassandra thought the portrait's eyes moved.
She stepped back.
Julian did too.
From somewhere above them, something thudded.
Then footsteps again. Slow. Deliberate.
Getting closer.