Chapter 35
Victoria descended the stairs into the cellar, her heels clicking faintly against the wood until they transitioned to the cold, stone floor below. While the rest of Zayden’s mansion was impeccably lit and modern, the cellar was starkly different—dark, musky, and unsettlingly cold. She frowned as the air hit her, a mix of damp earth and aged wood. She reached for the light switch near the doorway, flipping it on. A single dim bulb flickered to life, casting weak, yellow light that barely illuminated the rows of wine racks and storage shelves.
“This is creepy,” she muttered under her breath, hugging herself against the chill. Her gaze darted around the space as she tried to locate the cider Zayden had mentioned.
The racks were organized and meticulously labeled—red wines, whites, sparkling—but the further she moved, the narrower the rows became. She finally spotted a small section labeled Cider & Specialty Drinks, tucked into the corner. Breathing a sigh of relief, she grabbed a bottle of apple cider, her fingers brushing against the cool glass.
“Got it,” she said softly, eager to leave the cellar behind. She turned to head back upstairs, cradling the bottle against her chest, when her foot caught on something hard.
“Ah!” she yelped, nearly losing her balance. The cider wobbled in her arms but didn’t fall. She let out an annoyed sigh, shifting her weight to inspect what she’d tripped over. “What the hell—”
Her words died in her throat.
She froze, her breath catching as her eyes locked onto something pale and horrifying. It was a hand—a human hand, lying limply on the stone floor just a few feet away.
Her heart began to pound as she crouched down, her fingers trembling as she reached for the small flashlight hanging from a rack nearby. She clicked it on, the beam of light cutting through the dimness, and directed it toward the hand.
It was attached to an arm, which was attached to a body—lifeless and still. A man, face down, his features partially obscured by the shadows and a mop of dark hair. He was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, though they were rumpled and stained. Victoria’s stomach churned as the beam of the flashlight revealed more details: pale, cold skin and a faint, sickly sheen that could only mean one thing.
He was dead.
She stumbled back, her breath coming in sharp gasps as panic flooded her. Her mind raced, a thousand questions and fears colliding at once. Who was he? What was he doing here? Why was there a dead man in Zayden’s cellar?
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head as she tried to steady herself. “No, this isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
But it was. The body was undeniably there, the hand still visible in the dim light, a grotesque contrast against the cold stone floor.
Victoria swallowed hard, forcing herself to think. She needed to leave. She needed to get upstairs and confront Zayden. But as she took a shaky step back, her heel scraped against something else. She turned the flashlight slightly and saw a glint of something metallic near the body. A knife, lying just a few inches from the man’s outstretched hand. Its blade was clean, but the position was unmistakable—someone had dropped it in haste.
Her pulse raced as her mind jumped to the worst conclusions. Had Zayden—?
“No,” she said aloud, shaking her head. “Zayden wouldn’t—he couldn’t…”
But doubt crept in, insidious and unrelenting. She thought about the text she’d received days ago: “Zayden is not who he says he is.” She thought about his charm, his calculated words, the way he always seemed so composed. Was it all a front?
