A heart of the vampire

Chapter 4

Lucian led Serena down the winding corridors of his mansion, the dim candlelight casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the soft echo of their footsteps. Serena's mind raced, filled with questions she didn't dare ask. The coldness of Lucian's presence was ever-present, but the mansion itself seemed to hold a strange beauty she couldn't ignore.

Finally, Lucian stopped before a tall wooden door, intricately carved with patterns of roses and ivy. He turned the handle and pushed the door open, revealing a room bathed in soft, golden light. Serena hesitated for a moment, but Lucian stepped aside, his expression unreadable.

"This will be your room," he said, his voice low, almost distant. "It used to belong to Amara."

Serena stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat. The room was beautiful—far more beautiful than she had expected. The walls were adorned with delicate, hand-painted flower patterns, the kind of art that seemed to dance across the surface, alive with the essence of the past. The floor was covered with a lush, soft rug, and the bed, framed by an ornate canopy, was draped with silk curtains.

For a moment, she was enchanted. The room seemed like a piece of another world, a place where beauty and serenity thrived amidst the darkness of Lucian's mansion.

But then, her eyes fell on the large wardrobe in the corner of the room, its doors slightly ajar. Curiosity tugged at her, and she made her way across the room, feeling Lucian's gaze on her. She opened the wardrobe slowly, the hinges creaking softly as she revealed its contents.

Inside hung a collection of dresses, each one more exquisite than the last. They were made of fine fabrics—lace, silk, and satin—elegantly designed and carefully preserved. But as Serena's fingers brushed against the fabric, her heart sank. The dresses were all small. They were made for Amara.

Serena's throat tightened as she looked at the petite, perfect clothes. They were far too small for her, a reminder of the ethereal beauty that had once worn them. Amara had been slender, graceful, a living work of art. The reality of her own body, her own self, felt clumsy in comparison. She pulled back from the wardrobe, suddenly feeling out of place.

"These were hers, weren't they?" she whispered, her voice strained.

Lucian nodded, his gaze cold and unreadable. "Yes. Amara wore them."

Serena's heart twisted. She felt small, awkward, standing in a room that seemed to belong to someone else's dream—a dream that she could never live up to. The weight of Amara's presence hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the perfection she could never match.

Without meeting Lucian's gaze, she stepped away from the wardrobe, her chest tight with the sting of insecurity. She was not Amara. She could never be Amara. And standing there, in the room that once belonged to the woman Lucian had loved more than life, Serena couldn't help but feel like an imposter.

Lucian said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her, cold and detached. It only deepened the sense of isolation that gripped her.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she finally gathered the courage to speak, though her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Lucian... these dresses... they're not going to fit me. I—" She hesitated, feeling the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck, her cheeks burning. "I'm not... I mean, I'm not as small as Amara was."

She could feel the weight of Lucian's gaze on her, cold and impassive as always. He didn't respond right away, and the silence between them stretched, making the shame in her chest grow heavier. She felt exposed, as if admitting her inadequacy was a confession of failure. *He must hate this,* she thought. *I'm not like her. I'll never be like her.*