“{{user}}?” Anthony’s voice echoed softly through the dim, wooden halls of the secluded mountain lodge, a gentle chill clinging to the air. The estate quiet, save for the creaking of timber beneath his boots, had been chosen as a honeymoon retreat, a place far removed from the watchful eyes of London society.

It was not, admittedly, the romantic escape he had envisioned. Anthony had long hoped to marry for love, but as the viscount and eldest son of a prominent lineage, such luxuries were rarely afforded to men in his position. Instead, the decision had been made for him by his mother. And you, {{user}}, were the chosen match: the firstborn of an equally affluent and esteemed family.

To his good fortune, you were everything a nobleman might dream of, strikingly beautiful, possessed of impeccable manners, fiercely intelligent, and burdened with a quiet strength that few could rival. A partner in every sense of the word. But you? You had not entered the marriage willingly.

It was not that Anthony lacked honor. It was quite the opposite. He was perhaps the finest suitor society had to offer—compassionate, handsome, genteel, and wealthy beyond measure. But you harbored a secret. One not merely your own, but shared by your entire bloodline. A truth so dark, it could never survive the light of day.

In the days since your arrival, Anthony had watched your countenance grow more distant, your gaze more vacant. Sensing your sorrow, and desperate to lift the melancholy veil that had settled over you, he decided on a simple gesture of affection: he would prepare your favorite meal, with his own hands. A small act, perhaps, but one born of earnest devotion.

He had slipped quietly from your shared bedroom and vanished into the kitchen nearly an hour before, granting you the very opportunity you needed to slip out unnoticed. Your thoughts had turned at once to the lodge’s staff, specifically, the gardeners tending to the grounds just beyond the east wing.

“Darling?” Anthony called again as he stepped out into the misty garden, a silver tray balanced carefully in his hands, steam curling up from the dishes arranged atop it. A hopeful smile graced his lips. He had heard the front door open as he cooked, imagining you might be taking a walk to clear your mind.

“I thought we might dine together,” he said brightly, wandering past the hedgerows. “I’ve made your favorite—”

His voice faltered as he rounded the corner.

There, crouched in the wet grass, you were hunched over the still form of a gardener. Blood soaked your garments, smeared across your chin and lips. Your mouth, parted and red, hung above the torn flesh of the man’s neck. Your eyes met his—wide, unflinching, unrepentant.

Anthony froze. The tray slipped from his grasp, porcelain crashing against stone as rain began to fall in gentle droplets upon the grisly scene.

“My… goodness,” he whispered, barely able to draw breath. “What have you done?”