Chapter 4: Eleanor’s Ghost

The château felt wrong the moment they stepped through the door.

Luna noticed it first—the way the air sat heavy and still, like the house was holding its breath. The afternoon light filtering through the windows seemed dimmer than it should be, shadows pooling in corners where they had no business being.

“Do you feel that?” she asked, setting down her suitcase.

Lucian had gone completely still in the doorway, his expression shuttered in a way she’d never seen. “Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Old magic.” His voice was flat. “Very old. And very familiar.”

A chill ran down Luna’s spine that had nothing to do with temperature. “Lucian?”

But he was already moving through the house, checking rooms with swift, economical movements. Luna followed, her exhaustion from the flight forgotten, adrenaline sharpening her senses.

Nothing looked disturbed. Nothing was out of place. And yet.

“Maybe it’s just jet lag,” she tried. “We’ve been traveling for—”

“It’s not jet lag.” Lucian stopped in the middle of the library, his hands clenched into fists. “Someone’s been here. In the house.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can smell her.”

The way he said her made Luna’s blood run cold.

“Who?”

But Lucian was already walking away, his jaw tight. “Unpack. Rest. I need to check the grounds.”

He was gone before she could argue, leaving Luna standing alone in a house that suddenly felt far too large and far too empty.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. It’s an old house. Old houses feel creepy. That’s normal.

But the oppressive atmosphere didn’t lift as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom. If anything, it got worse—like walking deeper into water, pressure building with every step.

Luna unpacked mechanically, her mind still in Seoul, still on that balcony, still feeling Lucian’s lips on hers. They’d barely spoken on the flight back, both pretending to sleep, both hyperaware of every accidental touch.

One week, they’d said. The week was over. They were back in France. Back to reality.

Except reality felt like a nightmare waiting to happen.

After unpacking, restless energy drove her to explore. The château had eight bedrooms, Lucian had mentioned once. She’d only seen three. Might as well see what else her purchase had included.

The second-floor hallway stretched longer than she remembered, doors lining both sides like sentries. Most opened to dust-sheeted furniture and windows that needed cleaning. One was clearly Lucian’s study—books in languages she couldn’t read, maps that showed countries with different borders, a portrait of a stern-looking man in 18th-century dress who had Lucian’s eyes.

But it was the room at the far end of the hall that stopped her.

The door was ajar. Just slightly. Like someone had closed it but the latch hadn’t caught.

Luna pushed it open.

The room was beautiful. Clearly a woman’s sitting room—delicate furniture, a writing desk by the window, wallpaper printed with roses that had faded to the color of old tea. Unlike the other rooms, this one had been maintained. No dust sheets. No neglect.

And on the writing desk, as if waiting for her, sat a leather-bound diary.

Luna’s hand trembled as she picked it up. The leather was soft, well-worn. No name on the cover. She opened to the first page.

Eleanor Catherine Hartwell

January 1854

Her heart stopped.

Eleanor. The woman Lucian had loved. The woman who’d been murdered.

She should put it down. This was private. This was—

But her eyes had already found the first entry, and she was reading before she could stop herself.

January 15, 1854

Today I met the most extraordinary man. Lucian de Rochefort, recently arrived from Paris. He attended Father’s dinner party and spoke to me of art and philosophy as if my opinions mattered. As if I were more than just a decorative daughter to be married off.