Page 41 of Cracked Doll

‎"Amara Aldridge," she says proudly.

‎"Ophelia Sorrell," I whisper, the sound of my own name feeling like a confession.

We each give first and last, and I feel my own name land strangely in my mouth, like handing over something private to men who already seem to know exactly who I am.

They wave us through.

Once cleared, the gates groan open, and we are escorted down a long, winding driveway.

The drive beyond the gate curves long and dark through bare trees, and then it rises up ahead of us out of the mist — not a house. A castle. Proper Victorian Gothic stonework, spires clawing up into the grey sky, windows glowing amber from within like a hundred watching eyes. At the end of the path stands a Victorian-era castle, a monolithic slab of grey stone and jagged spires that pierces the midnight sky. It’s breathtaking and terrifying all at once, looking like a place where secrets go to be buried alive. Expensive cars—sleek, black, and costing more than my entire shop—are parked in a neat row outside, likely belonging to the elite filth who pay for these kinds of depravities. They line the gravel drive — the kind of cars that belong to people who've never had to think about money the way I have.

A member of security leads us to the massive oak doors and performs a signature knock—a rhythmic, coded sequence that sounds like a heartbeat. The doors swing open, and we are immediately hit by a wave of perfume, expensive wine, and the low hum of conversation. It opens onto a party already fully alive.

Inside, the castle is a temple to gothic excess. The walls are draped in heavy, blood-red velvet and adorned with ornate black molding. The floors are polished black marble, reflecting the flickering light of massive crystal chandeliers that hang from vaulted ceilings. People are everywhere, dancing in slow, sensual circles or lounging on velvet divans, sipping deep red wine from crystal flutes. A chandelier dripping crystal and candlelight from somewhere far above. The walls are hung with dark tapestries, gilt-framed portraits of people I don't recognize, their painted eyes seeming to track us as we pass. Every single guest is dressed in high-fashion gothic attire—corsets, lace, leather, and silk, all in shades of midnight and obsidian, every stitch of it black or blood-red — dancing, drinking wine from crystal glasses, laughing in low, cultured voices. It’s a sea of beautiful, pale faces and dark clothing, an assembly of the damned and the decadent.

Somewhere unseen, a string quartet plays something slow and mournful, classical but twisted slightly minor, the kind of music that sounds beautiful and wrong at once.

A member of staff approaches — dressed, like all the others moving silently through the crowd, in a severe black uniform, high-collared, silver skull cufflinks at the wrist, faces perfectly neutral, as though they've all been trained out of expression entirely.

"The succubus package, please," Amara tells him, practically bouncing.

‎"The succubus package?" he asks with a thin, professional smile. "Follow me.”

He leads us up a sweeping spiral staircase, the marble cold beneath my feet. We pass through a series of opulent rooms—libraries filled with leather-bound books and galleries of disturbing art—until we reach a long, dimly lit hallway. ‎ As we walk, my breath hitches. At the very end of the corridor stands a door. It’s crafted from a darker, heavier wood than the others, carved with intricate, swirling patterns that feel oppressive. Darker wood, an iron handle worked into something like a rose. It doesn't just look expensive; it feels him. It radiates the same possessive, suffocating energy that Rhys does. I linger for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the staff member keeps moving.

I file that away.

We stop instead at a door of deep, lacquered red.

He stops at a vibrant red door and pushes it open. "Welcome to the succubus lair. She'll join you shortly, once you're settled. I'll return with champagne to ease you both in."

The room beyond is a fever dream in crimson and black — velvet chaise longues arranged in a loose crescent facing a raised platform draped in dark silk, mirrors mounted along one wall (I keep my eyes carefully away from them), candles burning low in iron holders shaped like reaching hands. Soft, sultry music drifts from somewhere unseen, all cello and breath, built for exactly the kind of seduction this room promises.

Amara whispers, spinning slowly in place, drinking it all in, “Oh, shit.”

The room is a sanctuary of carnal luxury. From floor to ceiling, it is designed for seduction. The walls are padded with deep crimson silk, and the lighting is a low, amber glow that makes everything feel hazy and warm. In the center of the room is a massive, circular velvet lounge—a pit of plush red cushions and faux-fur throws where we are expected to sit. Opposite the lounge is a raised platform, draped in sheer black curtains, where the succubus performs her art. The air is thick with the scent of musk and vanilla, a smell that promises pleasure and danger in equal measure.

Amara practically throws herself onto the cushions, her eyes glazed with anticipation. "Oh my god," she moans, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "I am absolutely going to be mind-fucked tonight in here in ways that will mess up the rest of my natural life. She's going to wreck me, Ophelia. I'm going to be a complete mess for a week, and I can't fucking wait.”

I manage a small laugh despite everything, sinking onto the edge of one of the chaises while Amara claims the center of the crescent cushions, practically glowing with anticipation.

‎I feel a wave of nausea and anxiety wash over me. The opulence of the room feels like a cage. "I... I need the bathroom," I stammer, clutching my stomach. I say, standing again, "Nerves."

Amara asks, though I can see how badly she doesn't want to, "Want me to come with you, love? My nerves are absolutely flaring as well."

‎

‎"No," I say quickly. "Stay. Wait for the champagne. If we both wander off, they might think we've changed our minds.”

Amara considers this, then nods. "Fair point. Don't take too long, though. I need you here to witness my complete and total unraveling. I want you to see me lose my mind. Give you one more reason never to look me in the eye again."

‎I give her a weak, breathless chuckle and slip out the door.‎

‎The hallway is silent. I look left and right; the staff member is gone, and the guests are all tucked away in the main hall. I am alone.

My feet move almost on their own, drawing me toward the end of the hall. Every step feels like a mile, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm in my ears. I reach the dark, carved door—Rhys's door. I walk straight to the door at the end — the one that felt like him — my heart hammering harder with every step.

I know it's likely locked, but the pull is irresistible. I slowly reach for the knob, my fingers trembling.