The roar of the high-performance engines echoing through the stone gates was a death knell for Elva's hope. Her heart, which had been hammering with the frantic rhythm of impending freedom, suddenly stuttered and went cold.
Matthew.
The name reverberated in her mind like a curse. He was not supposed to be here. The world was supposed to be empty of his suffocating presence for another twenty days. The thirty-day window he had carved out of the calendar was her only sanctuary, her only chance to vanish into the folds of the map. But the cold reality was pulling into the driveway in a fleet of obsidian-black cars. Today was only the tenth day, and the hunter had returned to his kennel.
Panic, hot and jagged, surged through her chest. For a moment, she was paralyzed, her small hands clutching the heavy coil of hemp as if it were a shield rather than a tether. Then, survival instinct took over. With a muffled gasp, she let the thick rope fall. It hit the grass with a dull, heavy thud, disappearing into the long shadows cast by the perimeter wall.
If anyone sees me with this now, I'm dead, she thought, her breath hitching behind the linen wrap.
She turned away from the wall—away from the freedom that had been inches from her fingertips—and began a desperate, calculated retreat toward the east wing. She forced her gait into the subservient shuffle of a domestic worker, keeping her head low and her shoulders rounded. Just reach the corridor. Just blend into the swarm of staff. Disappear before he walks through the door.
But the universe was not finished with its cruelty.
"Maid?"
The voice was sharp, cultured, and laced with an authority that demanded immediate obedience. Elva froze as if she had walked into an invisible wall. Her heart leaped into her throat, the pulse throbbing so violently she feared it would be visible through her skin. Slowly, with the mechanical stiffness of a doomed woman, she turned.
Standing a few paces behind her was Elizabeth Salvatore.
Even in the informal setting of a late evening, the matriarch looked impeccably elegant, wrapped in a long robe of midnight-blue silk that shimmered under the dim garden lights. She had clearly been drawn from her chambers by the sudden commotion at the gates. Her eyes, usually so serene, were alive with a sharp, inquisitive glint as she studied the small figure in front of her.
"Did someone arrive?" Elizabeth asked, her head tilting slightly.
Elva lowered her gaze to the gravel, her mind racing to find a voice that didn't belong to her. She pitched her tone lower, making it soft, breathy, and deferential—the voice of a girl who knew her place at the bottom of the hierarchy.
"Yes, Madam," she whispered. "Young Master Matthew has arrived."
Elizabeth's eyes widened, a look of genuine shock crossing her features. "Matthew?"
A moment later, the shock transformed into a radiant, warm smile. She pressed a hand to her chest, her expression softening into a look of maternal pride. "Oh, my… that boy. He said the operation would keep him afield for a month." She let out a small, delighted laugh, her eyes sparkling with the sudden joy of the surprise. "What a boy he is. Always keeping us on our toes."
For a second, Elizabeth seemed lost in her own happiness, but then her gaze drifted back to the servant standing before her. The smile didn't vanish, but it shifted, becoming more clinical. She stepped a fraction closer, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the cloth covering Elva's face.
"Why have you covered your face, girl?" Elizabeth's tone was calm, yet it carried that inescapable Salvatore curiosity. "It is a warm night. Are you unwell?"
Elva felt the air thinning. The tension in the hallway became a physical weight, pressing against her lungs. If Elizabeth insisted on seeing her face—if those sharp, experienced eyes recognized the 'Madam' of the house dressed in rags—the game would end in a heap of charcoal cotton and broken dreams.
Far at the front of the mansion, the heavy mahogany doors had been thrown wide. Matthew Salvatore stepped across the threshold, the spurs on his boots clicking with a metallic finality against the marble floor. He didn't look like a man who had just traveled for hours; he looked like a storm front moving inland. His sharp blue eyes didn't linger on the bowing servants or the grand architecture. They scanned the interior with a terrifying, predatory focus, as if he were tracking a scent through the air.
He was searching. And he knew exactly what he was looking for.
In the corridor, the silence between Elva and Elizabeth was becoming a vacuum. Just as Elva opened her mouth to provide a desperate excuse about a sudden allergy or a cold, the sound of rushing footsteps broke the spell.
A guard hurried down the hall, his face flushed with the importance of his news. He bowed deeply toward Elizabeth. "Madam Elizabeth. Young Master Matthew has just entered the foyer."
Elizabeth's attention snapped away from Elva as if she had never existed. "Oh yess! I'm coming!"
At that moment, Philip Salvatore emerged from an adjacent gallery, having overheard the announcement. His expression was a mix of surprise and the gruff satisfaction of a father whose son had performed his duty ahead of schedule. "So, he finally returned, did he?"
Elizabeth beamed. "Let's go welcome him, Philip. I must see if he's been eating properly in those camps."
Without another glance at the veiled servant, the two of them turned and hurried toward the main entrance, their voices fading as they discussed the sudden homecoming.
Elva slumped against the wall for a fleeting second, her legs trembling. The reprieve was miraculous, but she knew it was temporary. She shoved herself off the stone and began to run—a quiet, frantic sprint toward the east wing.
Reach the room. Change the clothes. Burn the servant dress. Act as if I've been asleep for hours.
She rounded the final corner, her breath coming in ragged gasps, when she collided with a solid, unyielding force.
"Ah—!"
The impact sent her reeling back. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing on the polished floor. Her head snapped up in shock, her eyes going wide behind the linen mask.
Standing directly in her path were Luna and Louis Salvatore.
They had been walking together, perhaps deep in a conversation that her sudden appearance had interrupted. Luna's face immediately twisted into a frown of annoyance, her sharp eyes flashing with the habitual disdain she held for the help.
"Watch where you are going," Luna snapped, her voice like the crack of a whip.
Luna's gaze didn't leave the servant. It traveled down the charcoal dress and back up to the cloth covering Elva's face. Her brows furrowed in a deep, suspicious V. Beside her, Louis tilted his head, his posture deceptively casual, yet his eyes were doing a terrifyingly thorough audit of the figure before them.
The girl was too delicate. Her posture was too refined, even in her panic. She was smaller than the usual kitchen or laundry staff, and the way she held her shoulders suggested a grace that didn't belong in the servants' wing.
"Why is your face covered?" Luna demanded, her voice rising with a sharp edge of accusation. "Identify yourself."
Elva felt the walls of the corridor closing in. Her throat felt as though it had been filled with sand. She was trapped between the two siblings, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the silk of her ribcage.
And then, the world stopped turning.
From the far end of the hall, the sound of boots began to echo.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
They were slow, heavy footsteps. They carried the weight of absolute authority and the chilling confidence of a man who owned everything his shadow touched. The sound was unmistakable.
Both Luna and Louis instinctively turned their heads toward the approaching figure.
Matthew Salvatore stepped into the light. He was still wearing his dark military jacket, his leather gloves tucked into his belt. He moved with a lethal, quiet grace, his eyes fixed on the trio at the end of the hall. The flickering wall sconces cast long, jagged shadows behind him, making him look like a dark god emerging from the underworld.
He stopped ten paces away. His gaze didn't go to his sister. It didn't go to his cousin. It locked onto the small, veiled figure in the charcoal dress.
The corridor went silent. The air grew cold. Matthew's expression was unreadable, a mask of stone and ice, but his blue eyes were burning with a terrifying, dark clarity.
He had found her.