Chapter 10: Shadows Beneath the Silk
The house was too quiet.
It should have been peaceful—the kind of stillness that accompanied late afternoon sun filtering through sheer curtains, the occasional whisper of breeze through the trees outside the manor walls. But silence, Eva had come to understand, could wear many masks. And this one felt heavy. Coiled.
She had returned from the banquet tucked inside her father's arms, her small face pressed against his chest, her limbs limp with exhaustion. It had been her first official outing—an introduction not to the world, but to the world behind her family name. The one they had kept her away from. She had done everything right. Spoken little. Observed much. She'd worn her cream dress without complaint, nodded politely when spoken to, clung to her parents only when overwhelmed. She had done what they asked.
And still, something had gone wrong.
She sat now in her nursery, knees tucked to her chest, surrounded by quiet toys and soft pillows that didn't comfort her the way they usually did. Her wide, intelligent eyes stared out the window. She wasn't crying. Not yet. But the feeling sat like a pressure on her chest. A distant thunder waiting to strike.
Her aunt entered quietly, holding a small tray with warm milk and a biscuit. "Eva, darling," she called gently. "You didn't eat earlier. Come, have a bite for me, won't you?"
Eva didn't answer. She didn't even blink.
The tray was set aside. Her aunt crossed the room in silence and knelt before her. "Eva?" she tried again, brushing a loose strand of hair from the girl's forehead. The touch broke something. Not loudly—but completely.
A soft, sudden sob left Eva's lips. No warning. No building up. Just an implosion.
She didn't scream. She didn't wail like most toddlers would. She simply folded inward and began to cry. Silently, tears spilling in elegant, terrible succession down her cheeks. Her breaths grew uneven. Her chest rose too quickly, then stuttered. Her hands clenched around her knees.
Her aunt's face paled. "Oh, sweet girl. Breathe. Breathe for me—Eva?"
The sobs weren't loud, but they were raw. Unfiltered. From a depth that no two-year-old should know. She was hyperventilating now—short, panicked gasps that never quite made it to her lungs. Her skin had gone cold.
Her aunt scooped her up instantly, heart thundering. "No, no, no. It's okay. You're safe, you're safe—Eva, look at me." She pressed the child against her shoulder and felt the tiny body tremble.
Then came the whisper: "He said… he'd take me."
Eva's aunt froze.
"He… He wanted to look inside. I don't want to go to the white place. I don't—I don't want wires—"
There it was.
The man from the banquet. The one with the too-calm eyes, who had leaned down and asked Eva what languages she spoke. Who had smiled too widely when she answered his question about fractals with eerie clarity. Who'd murmured something about "early admission" and "neurocognitive scans."
Her father had stepped in then—curt, firm, dragging the conversation elsewhere. Her mother hadn't even noticed, surrounded by family members and forced smiles. But Eva had noticed. She had known something was wrong. She had remembered too much from her old world.
Labs. Glass rooms. Cold machines.
Not again.
Her aunt's hands tightened protectively around her. "Oh, baby girl. He's not coming near you again. Do you hear me? No one is taking you."
She walked briskly to the bed and laid Eva down, covering her with the softest blanket, whispering reassurances. Then she stepped out of the room, closing the door halfway. Her fingers trembled as she pulled her phone from her pocket.
"Reginald," she said when the call picked up.
Her older brother's voice was immediate. "Is she alright?"
"No. She had a breakdown."
Silence.
"I just found her curled in a ball," she continued, voice tight. "Not crying. Hyperventilating. You said no one would pressure her, but one of them—one of those old foxes tried to recruit her like she's some lab experiment."
She could hear him swearing softly on the other end. "Where's Evelyn?"
"Still at her event. I didn't call her. I didn't want her to panic."
"She should panic," he muttered. "This is exactly what we were trying to avoid. They want to parade her around like some political chess piece or marvel of engineering."
"I told you—I was the one who should've married Evelyn, not you. Why did she pick you over me? I'm the heir, not you."
He sighed.
"Forget what I said. I'll get her eventually. You don't deserve her."
"Well, your marvel is shaking like a leaf," she snapped. "You need to come home. Now."
"I'm on my way."
She hung up, exhaled shakily, and returned to the nursery.
Eva was curled under her blanket, eyes wide, red-rimmed. She didn't flinch when her aunt returned—but her fingers reached out weakly.
The woman sat beside her and gathered her back into her lap. "You're not going anywhere," she murmured. "Not unless you want to. Not ever again."
Reginald arrived within the hour.
He didn't knock. He stormed past the butler, straight to Eva's room, his face a mask of controlled fury and worry.
The moment Eva saw him, the first true spark of comfort flickered in her eyes.
"Papa," she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms with more gentleness than she had ever known in two lifetimes. His cheek pressed to her hair. His arms folded completely around her, shielding her from all things that might take, measure, or reduce her.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured.
She clung to him without a word.
Her aunt stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes watching. "She told me what he said. About labs. Wires. She remembered, Reginald. From before."
He looked up. "She remembers that?"
"Not all of it. Just… the fear. The feeling of being watched and poked at."
He closed his eyes for a moment. "I should've never brought her there."
"She didn't fail, Reginald. You didn't fail. That man crossed a line."
"She's two," he said softly. "She's a child, not an asset."
Her aunt didn't answer. Just looked down at the small girl nestled in his arms, still blinking away tears, still holding onto him like her life depended on it.
Later that evening, Evelyn returned home.
She had barely stepped through the door when she sensed it—something off in the air. A maid met her at the entrance with wide eyes. "Miss Eva is… she's resting now. But something happened."
Her hands went cold.
By the time she reached the nursery, her pretend husband was seated beside their daughter's bed, holding her tiny hand in silence. Her daughter wasn't asleep. Just quiet. Like someone who had been wrung out completely and left to dry.
"Eva," Evelyn whispered.
The girl didn't speak. Just looked at her.
It took everything in Evelyn not to crumble.
"I wasn't here," she said softly, kneeling beside the bed. "I should have been."
Eva blinked. "It wasn't your fault."
Evelyn froze. The words were said too calmly, too consciously, for someone so small. She glanced at her pretend husband, then at her wife, who stood in the doorway with her arms crossed.
"Can you give us a moment?" Evelyn asked gently.
Reginald nodded and stood. Their aunt followed him out.
Evelyn turned back and climbed carefully into the bed, lying beside her daughter without speaking for several long seconds. Then, she whispered, "You were very brave."
Eva's voice was so quiet, it barely existed. "I was scared."
"I know."
"I thought they'd take me away."
Evelyn's arms slid around her daughter's small frame. "No one will. I promise you. We don't want you to be anyone's tool, Eva. Not even ours."
Silence.
"Do you remember the rules we gave you?"
Eva nodded faintly.
"Those rules weren't to silence you. They were to protect you. So you'd have time to be a child. To choose who you want to be. Not so people would grab at you the moment they saw your mind."
A soft, slow breath left Eva's lips.
"We didn't tell you everything," her mother continued. "About how much we have. About who we are. Because we didn't want you to feel like you had to be anything other than what makes you happy." "I will tell you when you're old enough who you really are"
Another nod.
Evelyn kissed her temple. "You don't have to be perfect. Not here. Not with us."
"I wanted to be good," Eva whispered. "So no one would notice."
Evelyn closed her eyes against the sudden sting.
"You are good," she whispered fiercely. "But you are not invisible. And no one is allowed to touch you, test you, or take you from this house. Ever."
Eva's hand tightened in hers.
That night, after Eva finally fell asleep curled between both her parents, the three of them held one another in a tangle of limbs and unspoken emotion. A storm had passed, quiet and brutal. But the aftermath still hung in the air like smoke.
From now on, they would be more careful.
Not just about the outside world.
But about what silence could hide—even from a two-year-old.