Chapter 1: The Chains of Regret

Autumn Langley, the third daughter of the Langley family, was known for her wild streak and headstrong nature. After she confessed her feelings to her young private tutor and he turned her down, she took drastic, unforgivable action—she made sure he would never walk away from her, both literally and figuratively. Unable to accept rejection, she orchestrated an act of violence against him, then kept him sedated with painkillers, spent the night at his side, and finally locked him away in her private wing of the sprawling Langley estate. In her mind, she told herself she was only taking back control, that she was protecting her heart before it could be broken again—but deep down, even Autumn couldn’t escape the guilt that crept in late at night.

It was the kind of dark secret that, if it ever slipped past the wrought-iron gates and perfectly trimmed hedges of the Langley property—set right in the rolling hills outside Philadelphia—would have set the entire Main Line abuzz with scandal. Autumn had always been the kind of girl who didn’t recognize boundaries: not from her parents, not from her teachers, and certainly not from a scholarship student hired to tutor the Langley kids. Her cruelty was as polished and cold as the family’s best china at Thanksgiving, and the kitchen staff whispered about her late at night, trading stories in the warmth near the stove, always careful to keep their voices low in case she was listening.

From that moment on, the young tutor, once proud and reserved, became a broken thing—wings clipped, spirit caged—trapped in Autumn’s mansion with nowhere to fly.

He almost never left the old west wing, the part of the house with floorboards that groaned underfoot and windows tall enough to let in shafts of gray Pennsylvania light. The housekeepers left his meals on a tray outside the door, and his only company was the muffled laughter from distant parties and the steady, lonely tick of the grandfather clock in the front hall. Sometimes, the wind would whistle through the glass, carrying the sound of distant car tires crunching on gravel, and he’d imagine it was the world trying to call him home—but the heavy locks on his door always kept him firmly inside.

It was when he stood on the verge of despair, the noose already tied, that I appeared—just in time to save him.

That night is burned into my memory—the moonlight painting silver stripes across the oak floorboards, the smoky tang of bourbon lingering in the air, the way his hands shook as he tried to steady the rope. My heart thudded in my chest as I rushed forward and cut him loose before he could finish. For a long, breathless moment, he stared at me as if I were something otherworldly—maybe a ghost, maybe an angel. The silence was thick enough to choke on, heavy with all the grief, guilt, and desperate hope that neither of us dared to speak aloud.

But not long after, he bound my wrists and ankles with heavy iron chains, leaned close, and let out a soft, chilling laugh. "She never should've let me go back then..."

His voice was low, almost a purr—a sound that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. The chains pressed cold and unyielding into my skin. He leaned in until I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek, his eyes burning with something wild and unreadable. It was retribution, twisted and inevitable, and I realized too late that in the wrong hands, kindness and cruelty could look dangerously alike.

The first time I ever met Julian Mercer, he looked almost spectral—thin, skin pale, dressed in a somber black suit, seated in a wheelchair that seemed too large for his frame. His eyes, deep and sorrowful, peered out from beneath a mess of dark hair, and there was a delicate, heart-wrenching beauty to his features that made it hard to look away.

He seemed out of place, as if he’d been plucked from a different world—a figure you might find haunting the corner of a forgotten American art museum, more legend than living. The black suit hung loose on his shoulders, and his hands gripped the wheelchair as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Even then, there was a magnetism about him—an intensity that made it impossible not to notice him, even as it made you want to look away.

Panic bloomed in my chest.

My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst. My cheeks burned with a sudden flush of shame and anxiety. I tried to steady my breathing, but my hands kept twisting the scratchy sleeve of my wool sweater—a nervous habit from my old life. There was something in his gaze that made me feel as if he could see every secret I was trying to hide.