Page 1 of When 're Silent

PROLOGUE

Dominique Plantagenet felt divineas she glided through the opulence of the grand hall, her presence a radiantbeacon that drew admiring gazes and envious whispers. Dressed in a gown ofemerald silk that whispered against her skin with every step, she charmed theglittering crowd with the ease of one born to stand in the spotlight. Theparty, thrown by the network to celebrate the release of her latest series, wasan homage to the Golden Age of Television, and Dominique was its undisputedqueen.

A string quartet played melodiousstrains from a raised dais, their classical notes weaving between the laughterand conversations that filled the air like champagne bubbles. Servers in crispblack and white maneuvered deftly through the throng, offering delicate canapesand flutes of sparkling wine from silver trays. The clinking of glassesprovided a rhythmic undertone to the festivities, punctuated by the occasionalburst of genuine mirth from someone particularly taken by a jest or anecdote.

Yet, despite the allure of thecelebration, a sense of confinement began to press upon Dominique’s chest, theair thick with perfume and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.Her smile remained unbroken, her laughter still rang clear, but her eyes, thosewindows to a soul yearning for a moment of reprieve, betrayed her longing forescape. She excused herself from a circle of producers who were hanging on herevery word, feigning a need for some fresh air that no one could rightlybegrudge.

The gardens of the estate stretchedout before her, a sprawling testament to meticulous design and horticulturalmastery. Even in the bleakest January, they were mesmerizing. Moonlight bathedthe scene in ethereal silver, transforming the perfectly trimmed hedges andleafless trees into a dreamscape. Dominique took in a deep breath, the icynight air invigorating her senses, cleansing her palate of the cloyingsweetness and heat of the party within.

She moved with purposeful gracealong the pebbled paths that wound through a rock garden, her footsteps softbut assured. The solitude of the garden was a balm to her spirit, allowing herthe luxury of introspection amidst the revelry that continued unabated behindher. It was here, beneath the watchful gaze of ancient oaks and the vigor of abiting breeze, that Dominique found the solace she sought. For a fleetingmoment, she was not the star adored by millions, but simply a woman takingpleasure in the tranquility of nature.

Her thoughts meandered like thevery paths she trod, touching upon memories of early auditions, long nightsspent poring over scripts, and the tireless pursuit of her craft. Here, awayfrom the limelight, Dominique could almost forget the relentless pace of hercareer and the ever-present expectation to dazzle and perform. Almost.

Dominique’s heels clicked againstthe cobblestone, a staccato rhythm that accompanied the beating of her heart.The laughter and music from the party dimmed as she ventured deeper into thelabyrinth of hedges and rocks, which hid sleeping bulbs waiting for the Spring.Their towering forms seemed to close in around her, whispering secrets in therustling of hedge leaves and through bare tree branches, moving like they wereconducting the night. She felt the distinct sensation of being observed, thoughby what or whom she could not tell. Shadows played tricks on her imagination,conjuring phantoms in the corners of her vision.

A sudden gust of wind sent a shiverdown her spine. The air, previously balmy and scented with the perfume of rosesand jasmine, now carried an inexplicable chill that seemed to seep through hersilk dress and cling to her skin. Her breath formed a mist before her lips, andfor a moment, Dominique hesitated, the sense of unease growing stronger. Shewrapped her arms around herself, seeking the warmth that the night no longeroffered.

Dominique pressed on, determinednot to let her nerves get the better of her. But something primal andinstinctive within her whispered caution, urging her to be aware of the silentthreat she felt looming just beyond the veil of darkness. She knew thesegardens like the lines of her favorite script, and yet tonight, each turnseemed to lead her further from safety and deeper into uncertainty.

As she rounded a bend, the crispsilhouette of a man emerged from the shadows, standing motionless as if he hadbeen waiting for her. No words passed his lips; instead, he extended a hand,palm upturned. Resting upon his gloved fingers was a ring, its band thick anddark as the night itself, crowned with a signet that bore an emblem unknown toher. It was a grotesque thing, wrought with meticulous detail that spoke of abygone era — an insignia that had no place in the modern world, yet there itwas, as real as the dread pooling in her stomach.

Dominique’s eyes flicked from thering to the man’s obscured face, searching for some hint of his intentions. Buthe remained as still as a statue, the only movement the occasional glint ofmoonlight reflecting off the metallic surface of the ring. That emblem seemedto pulse with a malevolent life of its own, its design intricate and menacing,a herald of ill tidings.

The air between them thrummed withtension, charged with unspoken threats that hung heavy as the scent ofimpending rain. Dominique’s breath hitched in her throat, the sound deafeninglyloud in the silence that enveloped them. There was no mistaking the danger thisstranger presented, no denying the visceral fear that gripped her. In thateternal moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for theinevitable to unfold in the quiet of the garden maze.

Dominique’s heart raced as the ringbefore her seemed to pulse with a dark life of its own. The man, shrouded inshadow, remained motionless, his intentions inscrutable yet undeniablysinister. Dominique felt a scream building within her, a primal urge forsurvival pushing against her silent lips. But when the figure lunged forward,reality twisted cruelly—her vocal cords betrayed her, yielding nothing but asilent gasp.

Panic surged through Dominique’sveins as she recoiled from the advance. Her mind, usually so adept atportraying characters who faced danger with poise, now scrambled franticallyfor a way out. Muscle memory from countless hours on set kicked in; she feintedto the left, hoping to slip past him, but the man anticipated her every move.He matched her step for step, his movements deliberate and terrifyinglyassured.

The garden that had once been asanctuary now felt like an elaborate trap, each manicured hedge a barrier toher escape. She darted down one path, then another, the gravel beneath herdesigner heels giving way to the soft earth of less-trodden ways. Her breathcame in ragged bursts, fogging in the cool night air as she pushed her body toits limits.

But it was futile. The labyrinthinedesign of the hedges ensnared her just as effectively as any snare. With afinal desperate turn, she found herself backed against the unforgiving surfaceof a cold stone wall. The ivy that crept over it scratched at her bareshoulders, a stark against the silk of her gown. Trapped, her gaze flickered tothe man, searching for mercy where she knew none would be found.

And there it was—the last thingDominique Plantagenet saw: the cruel glint of moonlight upon a blade. Itgleamed with a malevolence that chilled her to the core, its edge sharp andunyielding as the line between life and death. No longer part of the shadows,the blade was an entity unto itself, an extension of the man’s will, and theinstrument of Dominique’s dread realization.

Time slowed, each second stretchinginto eternity as the moonlight played along the weapon’s steel. Dominique’seyes traced the length of the blade, from tip to hilt, as if by understandingits form, she might somehow escape its fate. Her breaths, once heaving, becameshallow whispers against the weight of her terror.

In those fleeting moments, herthoughts raced back to the bright lights of the party, the laughter, and theclinking glasses, all now worlds away. How quickly the scene had turned fromrevelry to nightmare, the gardens from an idyllic retreat to a stage for herfinal act. Dominique, with her career built upon delving into others’ stories,was now ensnared in a chilling narrative of her own, one with an ending shecould not rewrite.

Dominique’s heart pounded in herchest, a frantic drumbeat attempting to escape the confines of her body. Thegarden’s nocturnal symphony fell silent. All that remained was her raggedbreathing and the sinister whisper of leaves as the shadowy figure advanced.The cold stone pressed against her back, unyielding and as chilling as thefingers of dread that clutched her throat. Her assailant’s face, a mask ofmalice, offered no glimpse of humanity—just a harbinger of the grim reaper cometo claim another soul.

With an almost surgical precision,he struck. The sound—a horrific parody of a butcher’s cleaver partitioningmeat—reverberated through the quietude of the estate grounds. Dominique’s eyes,wide with the incredulity of one betrayed by their own mortality, mirrored themoon above. Even as the blade sank deep, she sought to comprehend this brutalconclusion to her tale. Her mind raced, desperate for the curtain call thatwould end this gruesome act.

Pain erupted, a searing firebrandcarving her flesh. It spread like wildfire, consuming all rational thought,leaving behind only primal fear. She gasped, a feeble attempt to draw breath,but the air became a luxury beyond reach. The world seemed to tilt, skewed onan axis of agony and terror. Yet, amidst the chaos, an odd detachment creptin—a spectator to her own demise.

The figure before her blurred, hisfeatures dissolving into the night as if he were nothing more than mist. Thegarden, once a sanctuary of solitude and reflection, transformed into her stageof final performance. Petals of roses scattered at her feet, a tragic audiencewitnessing her fall from grace. Each thorn now felt like an accusation, areminder of vulnerability in a role she had never auditioned for.

As consciousness fled, the starkcontrast between the life she lived and the death she faced struck her withpoignant clarity. No encore awaited; this scene would not be repeated. Herlegacy set in the echoes of a single, brutal act. And then darkness enfoldedher, the last shreds of awareness slipping away like the final notes of arequiem.

Dominique Plantagenet, whose namehad once glittered on marquees and whispered through the halls of televisionstudios, had been silenced. Not with the applause she was accustomed to, butwith the harsh punctuation of steel severing life. The gardens, which merehours ago resonated with celebration, now hosted a macabre dance where the onlypartner was death itself.

CHAPTER ONE

Finn’s muscles tensed as he facedthe imposing, aged door of the cellar. He could taste the stale air that hungheavy around the large building—a remnant of its storied past. His shouldersquared against the wood, a shiver of anticipation snaking up his spine. Thiswas it. The culmination of weeks of pursuing Max Vilne, the man who had turnedFinn’s life into a waking nightmare.

With a grunt of exertion andpent-up fury, Finn launched himself forward. The lock splintered under hisweight; the door giving way with a protesting groan and a cloud of dust thatseemed to have been lying in wait for decades. As the particles danced in theslivers of light penetrating the gloom, Finn stepped over the threshold. Hisheart hammered in his chest not just from the physical effort, but from thehope that he was finally closing in on Vilne—and Demi.

The room was a cavernous spacefilled with relics of bygone eras. Wooden crates, stacked haphazardly, bore thescars of time: faded labels, frayed ropes, and the musty scent of abandonment.His eyes darted across the shadows, searching for any sign of life, any hint ofmovement. But there was nothing—no Demi, no Vilne. Only silence met his ears, asilence that seemed to mock his desperation.

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