Blackwood Mansion stood behind iron gates decorated with the emblem of a black tree. The building did not look like a home so much as an institution that had learned to take the shape of a house, so people would feel comfortable before realizing that every door could be locked from the outside.
Elise arrived in the late afternoon, the day after the marriage.
Adrian got out of the car first. A head butler opened the front door. Behind him, the staff stood in neat rows, as though they were welcoming royalty.
“Welcome, Mrs. Blackwood,” the head butler said.
Elise looked at him. “My name is Elise.”
“Of course, Mrs. Elise.”
Adrian held back a faint smile.
“This is Thomas Reed,” he said. “He manages the household.”
“I’m already familiar with Mrs. Elise’s schedule,” Thomas said.
Elise turned sharply. “My schedule?”
Thomas didn’t seem to realize he had said anything strange. “Breakfast at seven. Your office is in the east wing. If you need a car, just let me know.”
“I haven’t given my schedule to anyone.”
“Adrian already—”
Thomas stopped.
Adrian stared at him.
“Already prepared the house for your arrival,” Thomas finished carefully.
Elise entered the foyer. The floor was made of dark marble. Portraits of Blackwood family members from several generations hung on the walls. Every face stared straight ahead, as though not one of them had ever doubted their own decisions.
A servant reached for Elise’s coat.
“Don’t bother,” Elise said. “I can do it myself.”
“Dina is allergic to wool,” the servant blurted out. “Sorry, I mean—I’ll be careful.”
Elise stared at him.
The servant immediately lowered his head.
Adrian raised a hand. “They’re only reading the arrival notes.”
“Notes about my allergies?”
“You told my secretary during your medical examination.”
“I don’t remember ever telling anyone that.”
“Your doctor listed it.”
“And you think all my personal information can be shared with the staff?”
“No.”
“Then how do they know?”
Adrian didn’t answer.
It was the first time Elise realized she might not simply have entered a man’s home. She had entered a place that had studied her first.
Elise’s bedroom was on the second floor, overlooking the backyard. The walls were warm white, the curtains pale gray, and books she usually read before bed had already been arranged on the table.
Even the editions she preferred had been chosen correctly.
Elise picked one up. It had a small crease on the last page.
She always read the last page first.
Not many people knew that habit. Even her mother had once teased her for ruining the story’s surprise.
“Who chose these books?” Elise asked.
Adrian stood in the doorway.
“The staff.”
“The staff knows I like this edition?”
“They were given a list.”
“By whom?”
“My secretary.”
“And where did your secretary get it?”
Adrian looked at the book in Elise’s hand.
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
She walked around the room. Near the window stood a desk with a small lamp that cast a soft glow. In the corner was an armchair, exactly like the one Elise usually used when sketching designs. Even the height of the desk had been adjusted.
This wasn’t hospitality.
It was surveillance disguised as consideration.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Adrian said. “I’m only making sure you won’t have trouble living here.”
“How do you know what causes me trouble?”
“A year is a long time for two people to live under one roof.”
“Not necessarily.”
Adrian approached, picked up a folder from the desk, and handed it to her.
“Public-event schedule. You’re free to decline anything unrelated to the arrangement.”
Elise opened the folder. There was a list of galas, charity meetings, business dinners, and two out-of-town trips. Between them were small notes: no sweet foods at breakfast, avoid direct spotlights, don’t schedule meetings after nine p.m.
Elise read to the end.
“This is all about me.”
“It’s all about making the marriage look convincing.”
“No one is going to suspect a marriage just because I eat sweet bread.”
“People don’t need a reason to suspect anything.”
She closed the folder.
“Where’s your room?”
“The west wing.”
“How far away?”
“Twenty-three meters.”
Elise stared at him. “You measured it?”
“The architect who designed this house measured it.”
“Adrian.”
He fell silent.
His name sounded different when Elise said it without a title. Adrian looked at her for too long, until Elise felt as though she had done something she had done before.
“Get some rest,” he said at last.
He turned.
“Adrian.”
The man stopped.
“Have I ever stayed here?”
“No.”
“Have I ever visited?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Elise realized it, and Adrian realized that she had.
That night, Elise went down to the library. She didn’t want to sleep yet in a house that knew her habits better than she knew them herself. There, she found a small table near the window. On it sat a cup of tea, unsweetened, with a lemon slice beside it.
She had never asked for tea.
Outside the window, someone’s shadow stood beside the old tree. When Elise opened the curtain, the shadow was gone.
She returned to the table.
A small piece of paper was tucked beneath the cup.
The handwriting was neat, slanting slightly to the right.
Do you still read the last page first?
Elise froze.
She recognized the handwriting.
Not Adrian’s.
From something she had not yet managed to remember.