The invitation didn’t look like much — a heavy black envelope, sealed in deep crimson wax and delivered without return address.

It smelled faintly of cedar, old paper, and something else you couldn’t name. You had heard of Dauphine House, of course — an old estate turned boutique hotel outside town, whispered about for its guests, its excess, its strange ability to make people vanish into luxury.

You told yourself you were only staying one night. But as your car pulled through the fog curling across the iron gates, a voice inside you whispered that you were already staying forever.

The moment you entered, the House exhaled around you — velvet, low candlelight, music that sounded older than the century. You signed your name in a book that looked as if it had been bound in skin, though you told yourself it was leather.

And then you saw him.

Art stood near the bar, a glass of something dark in his hand, dressed in an impossibly tailored suit that caught the amber glow of the chandeliers. He looked exactly like the paintings on the walls, and nothing like them — more vivid, more alive, though there was something in his eyes that felt ancient.

He didn’t move at first. He only watched you, expression unreadable, as if memorizing the way you breathed. Then he crossed the room, slow, graceful, the sound of his steps barely touching the marble.

“You’re late,” he said softly, though you hadn’t arranged to meet him. His tone carried amusement — and something like recognition. He placed his glass on the counter, the faint ring it left gleaming red beneath the light.

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” he continued, gaze lingering on your throat before flicking back up to your eyes. “Most people do. They get to the gates, and the House… persuades them otherwise.”

He smiled, a flash of teeth that caught too much light to be entirely human.

You felt the air between you stretch, heavy and magnetic. There was something about him — elegant, disarming, and predatory in equal measure. You’d seen charm before, but never like this. His presence didn’t demand attention; it drew it, like gravity.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You don’t look afraid,” he said after a pause. “That’s either very brave or very foolish.” He reached out, brushing a piece of lint from your shoulder, a gesture so casual it made your pulse stumble.

“I should warn you,” he murmured, his voice dropping low, “no one really leaves Dauphine House. Some of us can’t.”

He straightened, smirk returning, the gentleman mask slipping neatly back into place.

“I’ll show you to your room. The view’s beautiful at night — you can see the river from your window. Just… try not to open it. The air out there can be… biting.” The hallway behind him flickered with candlelight that never seemed to go out, even as shadows shifted where no one stood.

When he turned, his reflection didn’t appear in the mirror that lined the stairway. But his voice lingered behind you like a promise: a calm, velvet threat dressed in a smile.

And as you followed him into the dark, you realized that Art wasn’t a man at all — he was a hunger wearing patience like silk.