Chapter 3 - THE GHOSTS OF THE WEST WINGThe West Suite smelled of dust, old lavender, and damp stone.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me with a final, echoing thud, followed immediately by the harsh click of a deadbolt sliding into place. A second later, I heard the faint, high-pitched beep of a digital keypad being programmed from the outside.
I threw myself against the door, pounding my fists hard against the wood until my knuckles split.
“Open this door!” I screamed. “Ethan! Let me out!”
There was no answer. Only the muffled sound of his retreating footsteps fading down the long corridor.
I slid down the door until I hit the cold hardwood floor, pulling my knees up to my chest. The room was pitch black except for the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the high, barred Gothic window. Yes, barred. I hadn't noticed it before, but this room wasn't just a guest suite; it was a holding cell. A place where inconvenient Caldwells had been stashed away for generations.
My mind raced at a thousand miles an hour. Think, Lena, think.
My bank accounts were frozen. My phone was gone, sitting on the charging dock in the master bedroom three floors away. My passport was locked in a bank. I was trapped in a fortress owned by a family that literally buried its scandals in the coastal cliffs.
If the wedding ceremony was tomorrow afternoon—and if they planned to stage an accident afterward—I had less than twelve hours to figure out a way out of this room, out of this house, and past a security system designed by military contractors.
I stood up, shaking off the panic, and forced my eyes to adjust to the gloom.
I needed light.
I felt my way along the wall until my fingers brushed against an antique brass wall sconce. I flicked the switch. Nothing happened. The bulb had been unscrewed from the inside. Typical.
Using the pale moonlight as my guide, I began to search the room. Heavy velvet drapes covered the tall windows. An ornate mahogany four-poster bed dominated the center of the floor, draped in funereal black lace. A heavy oak wardrobe stood against the far wall.
I pulled the wardrobe doors open. It was empty except for a thick layer of dust—and a faint scratching sound coming from inside the back panel.
I froze.
The scratching came again. Scrap, scrap, scrap.
My heart hammered in my throat. I reached out and pushed against the back wooden panel of the wardrobe. With a dry groan, the panel gave way, swinging inward like a hidden door.
A draft of cold, damp air rushed out, carrying the unmistakable scent of sea salt and old paper.
I reached inside, feeling along the hidden wall, and my fingers brushed against something metallic. A switch? No—a brass lever.
May you like
Without thinking, I pulled down on the lever with all my weight.
With a low, mechanical grinding sound, the entire bookcase beside the fireplace slowly rotated outward, revealing a dark, narrow stone staircase spiraling down into the earth.
