A Royal Remarriage

Chapter 29 ~ The forgotten door

Morning came, but it did little to warm the house.

The ocean was steel-gray beneath heavy skies, and the air hung thick with an unnatural stillness. The kind of silence that waits.

Victoria stood alone in the hallway, watching the light flicker against the wallpaper—like something unseen was shifting just out of frame. Henry hadn't spoken since the night before. He sat in the den now, unmoving, his thoughts locked somewhere she couldn't reach.

She didn't like this version of him.

But more than that, she didn't like what the house was becoming.

Determined to shake the feeling, she made her way toward the east wing—an older, unused part of the beach house. Dust had settled like a blanket over everything, and the air grew colder with each step. At the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a leaning bookshelf, she found a narrow door she hadn't seen before.

Its surface was weathered and dark, the knob old brass turned green at the edges. No keyhole. No markings.

She hesitated. Then knocked once.

Nothing.

Hand trembling slightly, she reached for the handle—and stopped. Something inside her recoiled. Instinct. The same primal feeling that warned a mother of danger before it arrived.

Instead of opening it, she backed away. Not yet, she thought. Not alone.

Meanwhile, Henry sat in the study, staring at the cracked photograph again. Marcus's warning echoed louder now than it had the day they met on the docks two weeks ago.

"It's not just about us anymore. It's inside things now—places. People. You think you're safe because you ran? You built this life on top of old blood, Henry. It doesn't just disappear."

Henry had spent his youth digging graves for men who knew too much. Now, it seemed, one of them was digging back.

He opened his journal—an old habit from his fixer days. Maps. Names. Symbols. There, on one corner of the page, was something he hadn't drawn in years: a circle broken at the top, like an open eye. It was the mark they used in the group—the Wake.

It was meant to be a symbol of awareness. Of power that couldn't be unlearned.

Now, he was seeing it again.

Once, in a dream, etched into the sand.

Twice, on the frosted mirror in the bathroom the day they arrived.

Last night, on Victoria's skin, just for a second, glowing faintly beneath her collarbone—before it vanished like mist.

Victoria returned to the living room where Henry still hadn't moved. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he jolted, eyes wide.

"I found something," she said quietly. "A door. I think it's been sealed for years."

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "This house... it belonged to a man we used to work with. Before he disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Went mad," Henry corrected. "Said he was hearing voices in the walls. Seeing things that weren't there. We thought he overdosed... but what if he didn't? What if he was right?"

Victoria felt a chill run down her spine. "What do we do?"

"We open the door," Henry said, standing at last. "But not until I find out exactly what we left behind."

That night, neither of them slept.

Outside, the sea groaned against the rocks. Inside, something began to knock—soft, rhythmic, from behind the forgotten door.

And in the deepest part of the night, Henry dreamed again:

He stood in the hallway of the beach house. The walls bled dark water. Voices whispered his name from inside the wood.

And at the end of the hall, the door was open.