Chapter One
The gates didn't creak open—they sighed. A low, weary groan, like the iron itself had grown tired of ceremony.
Cassie Kensington stood still beneath the rusted family crest, her suitcase wheels catching on the gravel that had been swallowed by weeds. She tugged harder, the crunch beneath her heels louder than it should've been. Around her, the estate exhaled its decay: the fountain in the drive was bone-dry, its sculpted horses chipped, mouths frozen in a silence that once spewed grandeur. Even the hedges, once trimmed like topiary at Versailles, now jutted out wild and bitter, as if angry they'd been forgotten.
The house loomed in front of her. Smaller than she remembered. Or maybe just sadder.
They used to call it Kensington Manor in glossy magazines. Now, it barely passed for a haunted estate. Its windows blinked dull and lifeless. Ivy crawled up the brick like veins. The grand front doors—tall, arched, and oak—stood shut. But not in welcome. Just closed off.
Cassie pulled her coat tighter around her, stepped forward.
Inside, silence struck her like a slap.
No warmth. No echo of laughter. No distant hum of classical music or clink of polished silver. Just the faint smell of rot masked poorly by old lemon polish. The chandelier in the foyer—once a crystal galaxy—hung like a tired relic, dulled with dust and cobwebs. Picture frames along the corridor had been turned face-down. As if ashamed of what they'd once been.
A creak. Footsteps.
"Miss Cassandra?"
Rosa.
She appeared at the top of the stairs, her voice papery, hands still in dish gloves. The lines on her face had deepened, her posture a little more stooped, but the soft concern in her eyes hadn't changed.
Cassie turned slowly toward her, fingers still clamped on her suitcase handle.
"You're home," Rosa whispered, almost like she couldn't believe it.
Cassie's lips parted, but no words came.
"It doesn't feel like it," she finally said.
Rosa didn't descend. She just stood there, mouth slightly open, then vanished into the shadows as quickly as she'd come—like she'd seen a ghost and needed distance to process it.
Cassie stepped deeper into the house, leaving her suitcase at the door. With every room she passed, a part of her hollowed out.
Halfway up the stairs, movement caught her eye.
A girl stood still—barefoot, hidden in a hoodie that swallowed her whole. Hair tangled. Eyes too wide for someone her age. Charlotte. Her little sister.
Cassie froze. "Char…"
"You came back," Charlotte whispered, voice fraying at the edges.
Before Cassie could speak, her sister turned and ran. The sleeves of the hoodie flared like wings that never learned how to fly.
Cassie found the hallway mirror. And paused.
What stared back felt foreign. Her hair was neatly blown out, makeup crisp. Her posture—the result of years in lecture halls, job interviews, city clubs—looked confident. But the eyes. The eyes betrayed it all.
New York had made her sharper. College had made her disciplined. But this house? This house had carved the first cracks. And it knew exactly where to press.
—
She found her mother in the drawing room, poised like a mannequin in silk. Victoria Kensington hadn't aged the way the house had. Her beauty had hardened—less youthful now, more statuesque. A half-empty glass of wine dangled between her fingers like an accessory.
She didn't look up.
"You look thinner," Victoria said, swirling the glass.
Cassie sank into the velvet chair opposite her, crossing one leg over the other with slow precision. "So does the house."
Victoria's eyes lifted—cool, appraising. "Did you even graduate? Or were you too busy playing commoner with your little city crew?"
Cassie smiled tightly. "Summa cum laude. But I guess that's not enough to qualify as a Kensington anymore."
"Everything matters," Victoria murmured, then took a slow sip. "Especially now."
Cassie glanced around. The room, once immaculate, now felt abandoned in real time. Dust whispered from the drapes. The flowers on the sideboard were dead but still sitting in their vase. No one had bothered to throw them out.
"Where's Arthur?" she asked.
"In the study. Where he always is. Hiding behind ledgers."
Victoria finally looked at her again. Straight into her.
"Don't pretend you came back for sentiment. You came because you smelled the smoke."
Cassie held her gaze, letting the silence stretch between them like a game of chicken. Then: "Maybe I came to see what ashes looked like up close."
Neither blinked.
—
She didn't sleep that night.
The mattress was too stiff, the room too cold. Familiar, but not comforting. The wallpaper had yellowed, and the ceiling bore the water stains of a decade of secrets. A clock somewhere downstairs ticked loudly enough to mimic her heartbeat.
Restless, she wandered.
The house at night was a different creature. The walls breathed. The floors sighed beneath her steps. She padded quietly past the old rooms, memories tugging at her sleeves. When she neared the study, she heard voices.
She stopped.
Her father's voice. Deep. Stern.
"…her name still means something. If this merger is going to happen, she's our leverage."
Cassie's breath caught.
"She doesn't need to know everything," Arthur said again. "We give them what they want—a Kensington. She's all we have left that anyone still wants."
The reply was male. Crisp. Cold. More business than conversation.
Cassie couldn't make out the words, but she didn't need to.
The tone was enough.
She backed away from the door slowly, pulse even but stomach tight. Her father hadn't known she'd arrived yet. Or maybe he had.
She stood there a while longer, barefoot and invisible, long after the voices died down.
—
She found her way to the back garden. The air was damp, heavy with dew. The statues were overtaken by vines. Even the stone angels looked like they were turning away.
She sat on the bench that once held sunbathing, scandalous laughter and sneaked wine glasses. Now, it just held her.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
The screen door creaked behind her. Then footsteps. Slow, careful ones.
Rosa appeared, silent as the wind, draping a blanket over Cassie's shoulders. A warm teacup replaced her cold fingers.
"He still thinks he's saving us," Rosa said, voice barely above the breeze.
Cassie didn't look at her. "He doesn't even see us."
Silence.
A thump against the window drew her eyes. Charlotte again—pale, uncertain, her small hands pressed against the glass. Watching. Like a child too afraid to ask for company.
"She's scared," Rosa said gently.
Cassie sipped her tea. "She has every right to be."
Rosa didn't argue.
Cassie stared out over the garden. Wild roses clawed at the gate like prisoners. The trees groaned in the wind, branches twisting above like broken fingers.
She said it without drama. Without tremor.
"Being a Kensington doesn't mean you're safe. It means you're for sale."
The words hung there, heavier than the night.
Rosa didn't respond. She simply placed a hand on Cassie's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. The kind that said I'm here, even if the rest of the world had already turned its back.
The wind picked up, whispering through the trees like a warning.
And somewhere inside her, something ancient and tender turned to stone